As we came to be
by YouAreMadeOfTheSeaAndTheStars
Summary: Slight AU. Sam is born a girl-everything else is the same. Slight weecest, really just Sam's confusion and Dean's fear of losing his little sister, and feeling bad for the life she lives-wincest later. Extra long chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**AU, Sam is born a girl, everything else is the same. Slight weecest, Wincest later, because I can't seem to find people who fit them better. God they're so precious. **

Samantha Winchester was not like other girls—not that she took much pride in that. While other girls played with barbies, Sam was learning to stitch the wounds her father always seemed to come back with. Other girls learned how to braid their hair, Sam learned to strip and reassemble a gun in 30 seconds. When girls picked out dresses for picture day, Sam was having target practice, her brother Dean's hand always there when the recoil on the gun was too strong.

So, no, Sam wasn't like other girls—but she wanted to be. She'd sit awake at night, the nameless towns passing by the window of the only home she'd ever really known, the Impala, and wished for a bed—a big one, fluffy and soft and that didn't creak every time she moved like the ones in the Motels they lived out of, with thick soft blankets. She wanted four walls, painted her favorite color, green. She wanted a closet, not a duffel bag. She hated living from town to town, watching her father, and even her brother go out to hunt all the creepy crawly things—like the thing that killed her mother. She would watch them come through the door, blood spattering on the pale beige of the already stained carpet, and feel a little more desperate each time she had to take up a needle.

But, she had to admit, that there were times, when their father wasn't around, with his aching silences and his drunken glares (because maybe her face reminded him too much of her mother, though she didn't know it.) when she was alone with Dean, when he'd turn on the radio and blast it—and they'd dance, even though Dean can't dance, he did it anyway. He did it for her. And so he'd stumble as she twirled in her makeshift skirt of two shirts tied around her waist, his hands grabbing onto her shoulders to keep from falling over—laughing until their sides hurt because they didn't want to cry anymore. He'd play any station that didn't play mullet rock, because as much as they loved it—enough was enough honestly. They'd listen to anything, like tonight, Pat Benatar blared through the speakers and Sam's hair was coming loose from the pony tail she always kept it in, soft brown tresses falling around her. She was barley 12—but she'd never had a haircut in her life, and it fell past her elbows, swishing around her in a curtain.

For all that Dean remembered of his mother, Sam did look a lot like her, the same soft shape of the eyes, same oval shaped face, and even her voice when she sang. Sometimes it almost hurt to look at her, but he never uttered a word, and neither did his father.

Sam spun, her bare heels grinding into the grungy carpet, the two tone shirts tied around her waist fluttering with her movement, lifting to show milky white knees, her hair swinging into her face. Dean lurched forward in an awkward dance, his hands going into air guitar mode, his head bobbing to the beat coming from the well worn radio. She shrieked a laugh and spun again, her body colliding with Dean's their legs tangling and down they fell.

The siblings landed on the carpet with a muted thump, their limbs tangled and heads spinning. Sam's lungs (and her new, barley there, boobs) ached from the impact—her body laying half across Dean who was already hard with muscle. Dean lifted his head a bit to make sure Sam was ok, and seeing her dazed hazel eyes gazing back at him, he let his head fall back. "Ow, Sam."

"Sorry." She said, a light laugh bubbling on her lips. She could feel her face flushing, embarrassed at her clumsiness, and pushed herself up, bracing her hands on Dean's chest. "Are you ok?" She peered down at him, her hair falling forward over her shoulder and creating a curtain. It tickled Dean's ear, and he flushed, realizing just how close her face was.

"I'm fine, Sammy." He said, ignoring how her nose wrinkled at the nickname. "Get off, would ya?" He huffed. She blinked her big doe eyes at him, hurt already beginning to settle in them even as she pushed off the ground and walked back to her bed at the other side of the room. Her thin fingers tugged at the knots of the shirt arms at her sides—pulling them apart, leaving her in a pair of soft cotton shorts. She tossed the shirts, Dean's, across the divide between their beds and grabbed her bag from the floor before heading to the bathroom, not looking back even once.

Dean watched her go, he sighed and sat up running a hand through his close cropped hair. He was probably too harsh on her, she was just a kid, didn't know that you shouldn't be that close to your brother. He fought back the hurt look in her eyes and stared at the tangled shirts on his bed. Soon she'd be too big to want to wear his shirts like that. She'd want a real skirt, a real dress. She'd want a real dance, a date to go dancing _with._ Dean thought of her, changing every day, no longer the fragile little birdlike creature he'd become accustomed to, her hips wider now, harder for them to all squeeze into the front seat of the Impala on cold winter days when the heater used up too much gas—her face losing the baby fat, her legs sleeker, more muscle. He was watching her grow up, and it scared him.

::

Sam emerged from the bathroom half an hour later, her hair pulled back into a loose bun at the back of her head—wearing one of Dean's old Metallica t-shirts and a pair of worn leggings. The nights were getting colder again, and since John had headed out on a hunt, she wouldn't be sharing a bed with Dean, and therefore couldn't curl up against his back like she usually did when she was cold.

She pushed the bathroom door open and came out with a cloud of steam, her bag swinging from her hand, still humming the song from earlier. She looked around the room quickly and found that Dean wasn't in it. She frowned, it wasn't like him to just leave without telling her—so she scanned the room for a note. When she found none, she scanned again, this time for broken salt lines, her heart pounding. Still, she found nothing and so she began to relax. He was probably just walking to the nearest convenience store. _Most likely for pie._ She rolled her eyes and pulled on a pair or thick socks and her boots, lacing them quickly, she headed for the door.

She didn't have far to go though, because she could see him, sitting on top of the low roof of the bar to the right of the Motel. Sam rolled her eyes and picked her way quietly among the cars in the parking lot until she reached the ladder bolted into the back of the bar, and hauled herself up it.

Dean didn't notice her until she spoke. "You scared the hell out of me." He jumped and swore under his breath, twisting around to look up at her.

"Ditto." He grumbled, sliding over and making room for her to sit. She sank down beside him, letting her skinny legs dangle over the edge. Up here, the world seemed quieter, she could see the lights of the city in the distance and the cars flitting to and from a million different places below her, but it all seemed very far away.

The icy wind gusted by them, her wet hair pulling the chill against her skull, her exposed arms covered in goosebumps. Dean glanced at her when he heard her teeth begin to chatter and rolled his eyes. Of course she would forget. She was always forgetting the little things, in this case, a coat.

Without speaking, he hefted her up and into his lap, pulling the sides of his coat around her thin frame, her back pressed to his chest, her head falling against his shoulder. Sam squeaked in surprise, but began to relax immediately. This was what Dean did when their Dad was too drunk to make it to another Motel—when John would pull over on the side of the road, while the nights were still too cold to be considered spring. They would squirm around on the bench seat in the back until they were pressed up against each other for warmth, and Dean would wrap the sides of his coat around her—zipping them in together, and he'd bury his face in her hair while she'd press hers into his chest. Needless to say, this was nothing new.

"Thanks." She said, her teeth still slightly chattering. She pushed her arms back, sliding them awkwardly around Dean's stomach, pressing her fingers against him through the thin material of his T-shirt to warm them. Her brother simply nodded and let his chin rest on her shoulder, looking out over the small New York town.

"Do you think he's alright?" She asks after a while, because she has to. Her father scares her. Terrifies her, actually. He's never hit her—knows he loves her, but when he looks at her sometimes, it was like he was looking right through her, and it scared her more than anything in the whole world.

Dean's hands come up to cross in her lap, one hand pressing against her stomach, pulling her closer to him. "Dad's always ok." His standard reply is enough to calm her, because he's right. She's never doubted it, not really. To her, her father was invincible. Scary, empty, broken, drowning in booze—but invincible. Again the image of his teak colored eyes, glazed and drilling into her face, his face filled with anger and pain that she couldn't understand. The image sends shivers down her spine and she huddles closer to Dean under the thick leather of their fathers coat.

"Why does he look at me like he hates me, Dean?" The words are out before she can stop them, and she bites down on her bottom lip until she's sure it's going to bleed when she feels her brother stiffen under her.

"Sammy," Dean sounds shocked, and she turns her head slightly to find that for the second time tonight they're _too close_. "Dad doesn't hate you." His mind circles endlessly, searching his memory for anything that would've made her say that—that would've made her big eyes so sad. "What are you talking about?" His voice is quiet, his breath, smelling of beer (that he's not supposed to be having, but he gives her some so she doesn't kick up a fuss.) and the apple she made him eat earlier. She realizes that he's honestly never seen the looks that John sent her, and her stomach flies up into her throat because _why did she have to open her mouth._

Sam turned her head away, wishing she'd kept the thought in her head, but now it was out, and if she knew Dean _at all—_which she did, it wasn't going to go away.

"Sam." He shakes her slightly, trying to press her into giving him an answer. She sighs and lets her head drop forward, her bangs, the only part of her hair that's ever seen anything like a scissor (ok, so it was a knife, but whatever. She thinks it came out well enough.) slipping from where she'd combed them back and falling into her face in wisps. "Sam you can't just say something like that. Come on." Dean huffs into the back of her neck.

"Sometimes.." She trailed off, pushing her fingers out from under the edge of Dean's coat and grasping at his fingers still resting in her lap. "When he drinks, he looks at me like.. I don't know, like I'm _wrong. _Like he _hates _me. And I just—" Her throat became too tight to go on, so she just stared down at their fingers, now twined together. Dean's hands were so much bigger, tan against her milky skin, dotted with scars already—he had the hands of a hunter at 16. She frowned and wished she could wipe away the tears that were gathering in her eyes.

Dean let out a deep breath. "He looks at you, and see's mom, Sammy." He whispered, pressing his face into the back of her head, the softness of her damp hair brushing his face, his hot breath next to her ear, comforting in the chill of the night. He feels Sam quake at the words, and grips her fingers a little tighter. "You look like her. I don't know if I ever told you that." He felt, more than heard his little sisters squeaky "no" as her chest heaved, trying not to cry. This was delicate territory, he knew, it was sore, because Sam was so young—still wanted a normal life, still thought it was possible—and no one would tell her about their mother. She'd long ago stopped asking, because Dean was either too young to remember much, or too possessive over his memories to answer, and John never spoke of her at all.

Sam blinked, and the tears streaked down her face, the wind making them into trails of ice the second they touched her skin. She felt like she couldn't get enough air, and kept gasping—before she knew it she was full out sobbing. It was so _stupid_, because Winchesters don't cry—but she couldn't stop herself. It wasn't even like anything bad had happened to make her stupid tears acceptable. All Dean had done was tell her something that should've made her _happy_. It was the first nugget of information about her mother that she'd gotten in months—since the day Dean told her she had long hair, like hers, but their mom's had been honey blonde.

Dean was at a loss. Sam almost never cried, she was always so bright, hopeful, always smiling at him even when all Dean wanted was to be alone—she was always pushing away the darkness that settled closer with every hunt that their father left him behind. She'd never cried like this, not since she'd tripped while they were trying to outrun a ghost, and had broken her leg when she was eight. He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her quaking form against him under the coat, and nuzzled his face into the sweet smelling knot of hair at the back of her head, humming 'Hey Jude' softly in her ear.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Sam stopped shaking in his arms, her breaths coming more evenly. Dean kept humming, rubbing his hands over her arms from above the leather. Ever since she was a baby, Dean had been lulling her to sleep on hard nights with the same song he was humming now—and even though his voice was deeper with each passing year, the notes becoming scratchy and bone ringingly deep, she would never fail to be calmed by her big brothers voice in her ear.

The song ended and Dean placed a cold kiss to her temple. He didn't know how long they'd been up here, but the night was an inky black, the stars washed out and cold—November air gusting by them, and even in their cozy little bundle, it was beginning to get cold. "Lets go in, ok?" He asked, his voice hushed. She nodded jerkily and waited for him to slide down the zipper and let her out. When he did she clambered awkwardly off of his lap and stood on the gravel roof, her legs almost numb from sitting for so long. Dean climbs to his feet, more gracefully than her, and she grabs his hand again—knowing she's a little old to be holding his hand, but he doesn't say anything and neither does she.

When they get back inside the motel, she plunks down on the bed and pulls off her boots. They used to be Dean's, but he outgrew them when they were still good, so when her old ones had fallen off her feet from overuse, John pushed them at her, and that had been that. The boots dropped to the floor with a clunk, and she glanced over at the clock on the bedside table, her eyes widening when she saw it was almost midnight.

"Are you tired?" Dean asked, following her gaze to the clock.

"No." She said, standing up again. She stretched her arms above her head, her joints cracking the way they always did after she'd sat still too long. Her eyes swung lazily around the room, everything exactly as they'd left it—salt lines intact, the radio still on, quiet but still on, and their bags tossed haphazardly on the floor between the beds. This was the way she'd grown up, having been too young to remember their home in Lawrence, blissfully, too young to remember the fire.

Dean shrugged and meandered over to the mini-fridge on the counter of the dingy kitchenette. She watched him go, shucking off his coat along the way, his arms and back already corded with muscle, his strides long and rugged, the walk of a hunter. She'd know it anywhere. Bobby had it, so did their dad. Someday, she knew with dread, she'd have it too. Dean rifled through the small amount of food they'd grabbed on the way here, nothing too fancy. Cheese, bread, milk, a six pack that was quickly becoming a four pack, but Dean had grabbed another one on the way out of the store and hidden it under his bed when they got in, so John wouldn't know, a bag of grapes, some microwave hungry man meals and a bunch of apples on the counter next to the sink. Her brother grabbed another beer as she sat cross legged on his bed—she never went to her own until it was time to sleep—and waited as he walked back, toeing off his boots before he dropped down on the bed as well.

"Hey De?" Sam asked, laying back on the bed, her hands folded over her stomach. Dean looked down at her, catching the old name she'd used before she could pronounce 'Dean'. It had been her first word, well—half a word really, and it had stuck since she was just a baby.

"Yeah?" He asked, twisting off the cap of the beer and tossing it, with expert aim into the small trash can by the door.

"What's the song you always sing?" She turned her face towards him. She looked so young, younger than she was—by now most girls were wearing makeup, stuffing lip gloss into tiny sequined bags, pulling the tubes out in school bathrooms, showing off that were allowed to. Sam's face was still clean, the little mole by her nose the only mark on her face at all. It was almost painful, the innocence of her face—she was beautiful, and he knew she'd grow up to be even more so.

He cleared his throat, taking a sip of beer before he answered. "It's Hey Jude, by the Beatles. Mom.. Mom used to sing it to us as a lullaby." His green eyes clashed with her hazel ones, and he could see her tucking that away, into the little folder in her head where she kept all these nuggets of information about Mary, safe and warm in her mind, the little pieces of fact about a woman she didn't remember.

"Will you sing it? I know you already.." She trailed off, her eyes slanting to the side to avoid his gaze. He took a breath in, let it sit in his lungs until it burned, and then let it out his nose. Sam still avoided his gaze, and so he set the beer bottle on the bedside table with a clink and grabbed her by her skinny arms for the second time that night—hauling her up the bed, until she was nestled into his side, her head resting on his shoulder. She started to speak, but as her mouth opened he reached for the bottle and began to sing.

"_Hey Jude, don't make it bad, Take a sad song and make it better, Remember to let her into your heart, Then you can start to make it better..."_

::

Sam woke the next morning in Dean's bed, her legs tangled with his, her arms wrapped tightly around him and her head pillowed on his chest. She could feel his hand on her back, heavy and warm, and she felt like a little kid again, when she'd have nightmares about strange yellow eyes and crawl into his bed in the night.

Lifting her head, she glanced around—the sun pushed it's light through the crappy blinds on the windows, streaking the floor and their legs with bars of light. She realized then that Dean hadn't changed from his jeans after she'd fallen asleep, and rolled her eyes. Sliding her eyes to the clock she saw that it was almost nine. She groaned low in her throat. They were supposed to wake up at six every morning when they weren't enrolled in school and practice both sparring and gun skills—but crying had worn her out, and Dean had two beers instead of just one last night, it was no mystery that they had slept so late.

"Dean." She said, pushing her wayward hair out of her face as she sat up, his arm falling from her back. She shook him lightly, smiling when he groaned and turned his head away from her. "Dean, wake up." She said again, poking him roughly in the chest.

"Mm.. Stop.." Dean's sleepy voice curled around her, warming her from head to toe and settling in her stomach. She loved Dean's sleepy voice—almost as much as Dean loved pie.

"You have to wake up." She laughed, bending down to kiss his nose. He cracked one eye open to glare tiredly at her, the startling green color lit up by the morning sunlight. "Come on, up." She shifted back, onto her knees and grabbed the flaps of his flannel shirt, using them to pull him upward. For a girl of 12, she was pretty strong. Dean groaned and _finally_ sat up, reaching out and rubbing his hand roughly over the top of her head, pulling hairs form her already hopelessly ruined bun.

"What time is it?" Dean asked, clearing his throat and losing the sleepy tinge to his voice. She tried not to be disappointed.

"A little after nine." She answered, hoping that today wouldn't be one of her brothers "Dad's rules are law" days. In which case he'd drag her up, to the barren field behind the motel to spar in the cold, and right now, with her body still buzzing with warmth she'd sucked from Dean, her head still kind of heavy with sleep—that was the last thing she wanted to do.

Dean glanced from her to the clock, twisting his mouth up in indecision. He could tell that she was still tired, and after last night, he couldn't blame her. He didn't really feel like going out into the cold either. They could always spar later—it wasn't like John was here to yell at them anyways.

Sam laughed when Dean shrugged and flopped back down on the bed, grabbing onto her shoulder and bringing her with him. "No sparring then?" She asked, her voice light and sweet and going straight to Dean's head. He shook his head, smiling at her and pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. It was nice, sometimes to just hang out with his little sister. Lately, with all the frustration of John not letting him go on a hunt, even though he was old enough—he'd forgotten that. Last night, dancing with her, was the first time he'd relaxed in weeks and it had felt nice. "Thank God." She said, and snuggled closer to him.

"What do you wanna do today?" Dean asked, tilting his head to glance down at her, curled up against him, her hand fisted in the material of his shirt. She didn't answer for a moment, thinking about it. They didn't have much money—not counting the Credit cards that their dad used to book rooms, all illegal, and so therefore she didn't want to use them. She wished they owned boardgames, or a Nintendo, or anything. Instead, all they had was a pack of cards and a couple of old Disney movies she still toted around in secret. Maybe, if she wheedled enough, she'd get him to take her for a walk. Maybe he'd even let her wear one of his coats since hers were all worn out—she thought she'd seen a playground a few blocks back, and she wasn't _too_ old to deny herself the pleasure of swings. Yet.

"De.." She began, her eyes going big and soft like a puppy. Dean groaned, knowing he wasn't going to like this. "There was a playground.. not too far back when Dad dropped us off and.." He sighed and glanced back at the clock.

"Fine, Sammy." He said, pulling her closer. He knew he'd be bored out of his mind, but at least she'd be happy—and he never knew, there might be someone there closer to his age, maybe even a hot girl or two. "We'll go in a little while ok? First we've got to eat and shower and stuff." He said, but didn't move. Sam smiled into his shoulder, snuggling closer.

::

An hour later Dean dragged himself, and a very content Samantha out of bed. Half carrying her to the table and dropping her into a seat as he went to rummage up some food. He cut an apple into slices for her and gave her a glass of milk, toasted her some bread and set her makeshift breakfast in front of her. He knew it wasn't much—they didn't even have any butter for her to put on the toast, but she still smiled at him, her hair falling all around her face. He smiled back.

He made himself a cheese sandwich and scarfed it down quickly before he went to go shower. Sam could hear him singing (horribly off-key) 'The Eye Of The Tiger' and snickered to herself as she shucked off her leggings and dug around in her bag for a clean pair of jeans. She wriggled into a pair of faded jeans with holes in the knees, and pulled an old sweater the color of hot-coco on over the training bra her father had dragged her off to buy. The experience had been mortifying. The lady that was there though had been kind, realizing that John was an only parent just from the embarrassed way Sam and his eyes slid away from each other, she'd helped Sam find a modest white training bra. And two more until Sam really started growing. They'd come back with the Walmart bag, which she'd tossed onto her bed, her face flushing with shame and headed straight to the kitchenette of their Motel desperate to get away from her father. Dean hadn't stopped laughing for twenty minutes, so she'd given him a black eye that lasted for a week—and earned a pat on the back from John who mumbled, "Nice right hook."

When Dean came out of the shower, she pushed past her shirtless brother who was still humming the last strains of another classic and wiped the steam from the mirror. Sam pulled her hair around the side of her head and braided it, quick, efficient. For a second she looked at herself in the mirror. Short, unlike the men in her family—Dean was already six feet, and he still had room to grow, while she barley crested five. There wasn't much to her. Her eyes were wide and sometimes she wished they wouldn't be so disconcerting, their color an odd green brown that swirled together. Her skin was pale, not enough time spent in the sun—whereas Dean was golden brown, his skin like bronze in the light. She thought of the girls Dean always seemed to hang around with, usually blondes. Blondes with large breasts and blue eyes that caked on the makeup, and tilted their heads and giggled and made Dean smile. She touched the end of her braid, her eyes traveling over her skinny childlike body and frowned.

"Sammy come on. You don't have _that_ much hair." Dean's voice broke the silence, jerking Sam from her thoughts and sending blood rushing to her cheeks. She walked away from the mirror and headed to the side of Dean's bed where she'd left her boots, her face still pink.

Dean watched her lace up her boots, tugging her fraying jeans down over the tops and frowned a little. All her clothes were like that. Old, worn out, coming apart at the seams. Soon enough she'd need to buy more. He tried to push the thought of him and John waiting in a cheap superstore like Walmart or Target as she picked out durable jeans—not the kind with rinestones on the pocket, or the ones that came with the cute little belt, and shirts, not the ones that you could see right through, nothing with glitter, or sequins—she just couldn't have the things normal little girls had, and the thought made his heart a little heavier. But then she turned to him as she finished lacing up the other boot, a bright smile on her face, looking at him like she always had, and he couldn't help but smile back.

Sam watched her brother lock the door, pocket the keys and glance around, his hand always ready to grab the gun she knew was shoved in the back of his jeans, hidden by the thick leather coat. She was wrapped up in one of his jackets, it was warm and big and smelled like him, so she didn't mind that it fell almost to her knees and that the sleeves were way too long, her fingers barely poking out. She pushed the cuffs back, wiggling her fingers in the freezing air and breathed out a puff of steam. Dean glanced down at her, all small and short in his big coat and laughed. She shot him a look and pulled the coat around her in a way that told him to shove off. She liked it.

They walked down the road, the frost covered grass crunching under their boots, not saying anything. By the time they'd left the motel it was almost eleven, because Dean had decided to tease her about her braid, and that wasn't cool, because dammit, she'd worked hard on learning how to braid. So, of course they'd ended up rolling around the floor throwing light punches and mock insults until they'd run out of breath. She didn't mind though, because she still got what she wanted. She was in Dean's coat, on their way to the wooden playground she'd seen six blocks from the motel.

When they rounded the final corner, Sam had let out a little gasp of glee at the soaring spires of wood, the soft black of tires making a bridge between two structures, the swing set set to the side—and best of all, it was mostly empty. Just a young girl a few years older than Sam herself, and a little boy. Sam didn't even pay attention to the fact that the girl was exactly like the ones she'd been thinking about earlier in the day—just saw those swings and headed straight for them, her braid bouncing as she ran.

Dean watched her go, his eyes lit with amusement, it was nice watching the way she shoved the cuffs of his jacket back over her thin hands and grabbed onto the chains, pushing herself back and forth until she soared off the ground, her head tilted back as she swung. His eyes roved the rest of the park, finding only a girl and her brother, and coming up the road toward them a young couple with a toddler. Dean's eyes meandered back to the girl, her hair falling in light blonde waves down her back, her hands shoved in the pockets of her coat, her eyes darting to him, and away again every few seconds. He smirked and made his way over, keeping Sam in his peripheral vision at all times.

"Hey there," Dean said once he was a few feet away, leaning against the support beams of the monkey bars. The girl looked up at Dean, brown eyes glinting, her lips slicked with pink gloss when she smiled. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Beth." She said, turning her body to face him. "And what's yours, handsome?" She asked, laughing lightly, the sound warm on the bitter cold air.

"Dean." He said, leaning a little closer to her. She flushed lightly as she met his eyes, noticing how pretty they were—bottle green was the closest color she could come up with.

"Well, Dean, it's nice to meet you." Beth said, pulling one hand from her coat pocket and holding it out of him. He grinned his trademark, panty dropping grin and took her small soft hand in his larger one, his eyes crinkling.

Sam let her feet drag on the wood chips, slowing her down, her eyes scanning the playground for Dean, knowing he was here somewhere. Her face was cold, her nose was probably red, but she wanted him to push her on the tire swing, or maybe balance with her on the rocking platform she could see a little ways off. She took great big gusting breaths into her lungs and let them out, enjoying the air—glad to not be stuck in the motel as she hopped off the swings and went up on her tiptoes to look for him. _There!_ Her mind crowed, she saw the back of his light brown head, the collar of their fathers leather jacket popped up in a way that only him and John could pull off, she was convinced. But there, in front of Dean, was a flash of blonde—and suddenly she remembered the girl she'd seen on her way in. Blonde, pretty, exactly the kind of girl she'd compared herself too this morning, and her stomach curled with displeasure.

Dean looked up at the sound of crunching wood chips, pausing in the act of asking Beth what school she went to, having worked up a lie about being new to the area—and saw Sammy making her way over, flushed and adorable in his coat, a sweet smile on her face.

"Hello." Sam said, stopping beside Dean, her voice high and sweet. She observed the girl before her, with her shiny leather boots and practically untouched winter jacket, the white gold of her hair, and pretty brown eyes. Sam's mouth went sour and she had to fight her very hardest to keep up the act.

"Oh, hello." The girl said, smiling at Sam, innocent enough, but with the detachment of someone talking to their neighbors children. "What's your name?" She asked.

"Sam." Sam said, holding out her hand like a good little actress. When the girl replied with 'My names, Beth.' Sam thought of the many ways that she could flip her before she'd finished the sentence. "That's a pretty name." She said, her smile still sweet and young. She could feel Dean's incredulous stare, boring through her skull. She silently vowed to always hate the name Beth.

"Thank you." Beth smiled, her voice fake as the acrylic nails that scraped Sam's palm. "This your sister?" She asked, looking up at Dean, who flashed her his charming smile and nodded. _Like that wasn't obvious, whore._ Sam thought. "She's cute." Beth smiled shyly up at Dean through her lashes and Sam imagined kicking her so hard her shin would snap.

"Dean." Sam tugged on his sleeve, "Come play with me on the balancing thingy." She said, her eyes hopeful. All her resentment flushed out as she stared up at him, her hands lost in the sleeves of his coat, her eyes wide and soft. He looked down at her, ready to say no, that he was busy, but found himself nodding instead. Damn those eyes.

"Sorry, sugar." Dean said, his eyes flashing back up to Beth. "Gotta go." Beth forced a smile on her face, not quite hiding the annoyance in her eyes as Sam dragged Dean away, her voice trailing back until she was out of earshot.

Dean watched Sam scramble up onto the platform, slightly amused despite himself. It was obvious she hadn't liked Beth, the second she'd slapped that sickly sweet smile on her face he'd known, and it was hard to keep his confused face neutral. "C'mon Dean." Sam called, her feet spread a few inches apart to maintain balance.

"Tell me what that was about." Dean said, his tone light, amusement glinting in his eyes. Sam let out a sigh of relief, thanking god that Dean wasn't mad at her for dragging him away from Beth. Still, she made an innocent face, her eyes wide and confused. "Don't give me that." He said, laughing.

Sam stuck her tongue out at him and lunged forward, grabbing his shoulder and hauling him closer to the platform. "Get on." She pouted. She didn't know how to explain the feeling in her gut, the sick, cold, nasty feeling like when you've been in the car too long with nothing to eat. It would sound stupid, so she would just play the possessive little sister card—just like she always did when this happened, hoping that she could stretch it's effect just a little longer. Dean crossed his arms, a smirk pulling at his lips—the message was clear, he wasn't moving until she told him why. "You're supposed to play with _me." _She said, knowing that she sounded spoiled, but Dean was hers, at the end of the day. She had always had him in the ways that those girls didn't, but it didn't stop the feeling in her stomach when she saw them shift closer to her big brother, all wide eyes and sultry voices that made Dean talk to them and not her. Dean laughed, and finally pulled himself up onto the unsteady slab of wood, making it quake and rock as he found his balance and knocked her off of hers.

"You're right, Sammy. I did come here to be with you." He said, a smile on his face, and Sam couldn't help but smile back, her flushed cheeks and red nose making her look like a five year old. Dean's smile got wider looking at hers, and they lurched back and forth on the shaking platform for a while, throwing fake punches and kicks, shaking the board to make the other fall off, their laughter ringing in the November air.

::

They left around two, Sam finally having to concede defeat to Dean's challenge of who could outlast the other, when her fingers got too numb to hold onto the Monkey bars well enough to keep going, and rode home on Dean's back, her arms wrapped around his shoulders and her chin on his head. The walk was long, the wind colder than before, gusting by them with more force—she nuzzled her cold nose into the back of his head and pressed cold kisses to the short cropped hair. "Cold?" Dean asked, his voice warm and comforting. She nodded, and smiled happily when Dean set her down and picked her up again so that she was facing his collarbone instead of the back of his head. She was instantly warmer, with his breath on the crook of her neck as he walked, but she saw with slight disappointment that they'd be back to the motel soon, and so Sam nuzzled closer, her hair tickling Dean's chin as she laid her face into the crook of his neck.

Dean smiled, knowing that soon she'd be too old for them to do things like this anymore, so he didn't mind her clinging onto him like a monkey for the last little bit he'd enjoy it. He shifted his arms under her more securely, feeling a hole in her pocket as his hands moved under her little butt, and frowned again, thinking about new clothes again. The thought quickly vanished from his mind though, when he felt her shift closer, pressing away from the cold—her fingers like ice against the back of his neck. He sped up his stride when the Motel came into sight, and pressed a wintry kiss to her temple before setting her down to open the door.

The door swung open and Dean shooed her in, his hands on her shoulders. "Are you hungry?" He asked, locking the door again and checking the salt lines. Sam nodded and began unbuttoning the buttons of Dean's coat, her fingers still clumsy with cold. He smirked and bent down to do it for her, but she slapped his hands away.

"I can do it, De." She pouted and turned away, finally popping the buttons and shrugging it off her shoulders. "I'm not a baby anymore." She said, tossing the coat (that she claimed now) onto her bed and sitting down to undo her boots.

Dean paused for a minute. He wished she wouldn't say that—but she was right. She was 12 years old, on the precipice of being a "big kid" and he had forgotten, momentarily. "You're right." He said, throwing a smile on his face as she turned around. "Forgive me, big girl." He toed off his boots and made his way to the kitchen. "Do you want a Grilled cheese?" He asked, plugging in the toaster.

"We don't have butter." She said, leaning against the wall watching him.

"I know. We'd have to make it Dad style." He said, turning to find her raking her fingers through her hair, which she'd pulled from the braid. She glanced up at him, wrinkling her nose but nodding anyway. Dad style was toasted bread with hardly melted cheese in the middle. It wasn't her favorite, but it was warm and would hold her off until dinner. Dean smirked and popped two slices of bread in the toaster before turning back to Sam. "So. Big girl, What now?" Sam narrowed her eyes at him, hoping that "big girl" wouldn't stick like Sammy had.

She shrugged—knowing she wouldn't be able to get him to sit still through a movie. There wasn't anything to do—except train. She knew Dean would crack when John got back, and tell him that they hadn't trained that morning—it was just the way Dean was. He was the good little soldier, and she was expected to go along and fight with him. "We should train." She sighed, pushing her slightly less tangled hair back over her shoulder. It wasn't that training was hard, because it wasn't, not anymore. It was more brain work now because her body knew all the moves by heart. It didn't matter that she was a girl, John expected her to know it all, expected her to be on par, because she was a Winchester, which meant that young or not, she was a hunter already.

Dean nodded, turning back to the toaster as the slices of bread popped up. He quickly assembled the sandwich and wrapped it in a paper towel for her. She accepted it, not complaining that the cheese wasn't melted or the bread was too dry—she chewed thoughtfully for a few minutes, watching as he puttered around the kitchen, grabbing an apple as lunch and then putting away the mess from her lunch. It struck her that he was really the only family she had. She knew that John was her father, but he wasn't around, Dean always was. He'd changed her diapers, combed her hair, made her food, read her stories and sang her to sleep when she was scared, held her hand when she learned how to walk—his name was her first word. At the end of the day, to her, John didn't count nearly as much as Dean did.

Sammy finished her sandwich, moving back to her bed to pull on her boots and an extra sweater, seeing as the coat would get in the way if she tried to spar with it on. She pulled her hair back into a tight bun—keeping the bangs out of her face by twisting them and tucking them under strands of her hair. Dean watched as she got ready, her movements quick, sure, not at all like a child. It had been years since she'd toddled around, slow and unsteady, now she sometimes even bested John in a fight—though it was rare. Samantha was a good fighter, and someday she'd be a good Hunter.

Sam waited as Dean slipped his boots back on and did up his coat, grabbing a bottle of water in case they got thirsty. He smiled at her, slipping the gun back into the back of his pants and moving to the door. She jogged around the back of the Motel as she waited for him to lock the door, her feet crunching in the dead grass—her muscles stretching and pulling as she bent forward, her fingers brushing the ground, then back, her back bending in a way that never failed to make Dean wince. She jumped up as Dean came around the back of the motel, his arms already over his head, starting his stretches.

They positioned themselves on the field, the noise from the road muted back here, the wind whipping their cheeks into a rosy red. She didn't remember who made the first move, because as soon as it happened, they were already in full swing—her body moving without her having to think, blocking his kick, jabbing sharply into his side, never hard enough to break, only to bruise. The lunged, back and forth, legs sweeping, fists flying, until his nose was bloody and she'd have a nice bruise on her cheek in the morning.

Dean grunted, sending a roundhouse kick towards her chest, a blow that would knock her back and give him the advantage—but she grabbed his ankle and pulled, using his momentum and weight against him. He stumbled forward, landing in an awkward lunge, and then her knee was pressing into his spine, forcing him to the ground. He felt his body being pressed into the ground, the frozen grass tickling his face. "Give up?" Sam's voice taunted from above him.

Fast as lighting, Dean rolled to the side, grabbing onto her supporting ankle and tugging it out from under her. She grunted and collapsed, her legs sliding into a split. "Never." Dean winked, and rolled into a crouch. Sam growled, low in her throat scrambling to her feet. She ducked low, pushing her body into Dean's shoving with all the force her skinny limbs contained. Dean grunted, surprise evident as his fingers scrabbled over her back, searching for a hold to drag her back. She shoved one last time, and sent him toppling back onto the ground. As he fell, he grabbed onto the front of her sweater and she groaned as she followed him down, landing once again, across his chest.

"Ugh. That hurts." Sam said, rolling off him holding her hands to her chest. Dean snorted, lifting himself up on his elbows. "Shut up!" She said to his mocking expression. Her face flushing as she dropped her hands to her lap.

"Ok, ok." He said, rolling onto his knees. "I think that's enough for today." He said, wiping under this nose, his hand coming away red. Sam nodded, tilting her head back to judge the time—shocking herself to find that the sun was setting. They'd been out here for hours and somehow they hadn't noticed. The sky was cast with a vibrant pink and orange, and as Dean clambered to his feet, he became a silhouette, and for a second Sam could just look at him, the sun setting behind him, tall and strong, his face all sharp angles and shadowed eyes. He was beautiful. "Come on, Sammy. It's time for dinner."

She scrambled to her feet, her face flushing as she shook the thought from her mind, trotting along behind her brother as he made his way back around the front of the building.

::

Darkness fell quickly after that, as Sam and Dean argued over who got the shower first—she won. He always was terrible at rock paper scissors. She ran into the bathroom with her bag, cackling with glee and made sure to be extra obnoxious with her song choice, practically yelling instead of singing until finally, when she deemed she'd taken up enough of the hot water, she climbed out and back into sleep clothes—another old shirt of Dean's and a pair of loose fitting sweat pants. She left her hair down and walked back into the main room to find Dean absorbed in a movie on the TV. She clambered over the back of the couch and tugged at him, "Shower. You stink." He ruffled her wet hair and stood to go.

Her eyes slid back to the TV, taking in the scene—local news. He was most likely scanning for news of their father, looking for recent deaths or disappearances or mentions of strange men with big guns. Her thoughts strayed to one of the few hunt's she'd been dragged along on, what should've been an easy Salt and Burn, but turned out to be almost disastrous. It had been the ghost of a child who'd died of sickness in the 1800's, and her soul had gone slowly mad from the anger over being ignored, never realizing she'd died. The girl had seen Sam, then only eight, wandering the Graveyard as her father and brother had dug for her bones and wanted to play. Sam shivered, remembering the blood that had crusted around the little girl's mouth, the sunken eyes that had been filled with hope for a friend. She'd been so afraid, so scared of this little girl who just wanted to be seen. So, she'd taken pity on her. They'd run around the graveyard, playing hide and seek, until they'd strayed too close to where her father and Dean were digging—and then there had been chaos. The girl had screamed in betrayal, her eyes burning with hatred—darting to Sam hands around her throat all at once. She remembered Dean only 12, lurching out of the hole, nearly completed clutching the iron shovel and swinging it through her bloated, mist like body. He'd grabbed her up, running for the car, and she'd been there, shadowing every step, and Sam'd tripped—her body flying forward, her foot catching on a broken tomb stone, tumbling and then the agonizing snap of her leg, her screaming and then, little Emily Cartwright going up in flames as their father finished the job.

Dean had fought with their father, screaming until he had no voice the next morning, her leg held in place all the way to Bobby's, where he'd made a stiff cast. After that, Sam was never allowed to go on another hunt—and she was perfectly okay with that.

The news lady finished her report—nothing unusual. She signed off with a smile and Sam sighed. "Anything?" She stifled a shriek and jumped around to find Dean standing behind the couch, jeans slung low on his hips, towel still rubbing the moisture from his hair.

"N-no." She said, her hand pressed to her chest. Her eyes traveled up his chest to the fresh tattoo their father had paid for—and anti-possession symbol, still dark and shiny against his skin. Eyes trailing back down to his hard muscled chest and stomach, the slightly bulging muscles of his upper arms, Sam felt a little lost, like looking out at the ocean and realizing how big it was. She felt small, as though she was standing on a rocking surface, ready to tip over the edge. Dean sighed and tossed the towel back onto his bed, turning to the kitchen to make them dinner and Sam shook her head, her mind clearing like fog disappearing slowly by the heat of the sun.

"Well, I guess that's a good thing." Dean called back. Sam nodded absently and began to pull her hair back, the action a familiar one, soothing the uneasiness in her stomach. Her fingers combed through the thick waves, pulling them behind her head into a messy bun before sliding off the couch and walking up behind Dean as he pulled out two Hungry man meals. One steak, the other Chicken. She hopped up onto the table, letting her legs swing over the edge as he shoved one meal into the microwave, his back just as muscled as his front.

"You already look like one." She said—again her mouth running away from her. She blushed hotly, biting down on her lip as he turned back to her, one eyebrow raised. She _needed_ to learn how to filter herself.

"What?" Dean asked, his face twisted into an expression of surprise. Sam flushed brighter, her eyes dropping to her hands, clasped tightly around the edge of her T-shirt. She didn't want to tell him, because to her the thought of her big brother looking like a Hunter already was nauseating. The look of a hunter came to those who death would follow like an eager dog, whose life would be filled with danger and blood and loss, to someone who would surely die before their time. But to Dean, who had always wanted to be like their father, who still held memories of the mother she'd never known, and most importantly, the night she'd died, the thought of looking like a hunter would be something to be proud of. As it was, he wore their fathers coat, the same jeans and heavy boots that clomped the ground, the same t-shirts and plaid over shirts—he was practically a doll of their father as it was, following his moves carefully because he wanted to be a hero like John. She wanted Dean to never be anything like their dad, as much as she loved their father—he wasn't nearly as dear to her as Dean and she knew with some small part of her that John would die before his time, and that wasn't the fate she wanted for her brother.

"You look like a hunter." She breathed, her eyes staring intensely at the scrapes on her fingers. Sam could hear him shifting forward, standing in front of her knees, his eyes on her. "You walk like one, you move like one, you're already all muscled up—you're just a kid and you already look like Dad and Bobby and the others. I.." She sighed, her eyes flitting up to his, the green of them momentarily robbing her of thought. "I don't like it." She finished, her mouth twisting in displeasure.

Dean knew she wouldn't, he could see the shaky fear in her eyes, the sadness that hovered low over her, pushing her into a slumped position. He reached out and pulled her close to him, her face pressing into the curve of his neck, her arms wrapped around his bare torso. She was so small in his arms, it was hard to remember the fact that not even an hour ago she'd been kicking his ass out on the field—harder even to imagine that someday she'd be hunting along with him and his father. The thought made his blood go cold, remembering the scream she'd given when she'd broken her leg tripping over a broken headstone. She was so young, so delicate still, just barley beginning to change from child to young lady, still small enough, young enough to want to play on the swings, to drag him away from girls because he was supposed to play with her, young enough to be carried home, her small face pressed into the curve of his neck. And soon she would have the same look as he did, strong, confident and danger chased.

"Hey, it's alright." Dean said, pulling her chin up to meet her eyes. "I know you think that's a bad thing, I know it scares you—but I swore that I'd always be here to watch over you didn't I?" He waited until she nodded and then gave her a smile. "Well, I'm not going anywhere—because I promised, and what kind of big brother would I be if I broke a promise?"

Sam relaxed into him, letting the warm scent of gunpowder and apples that always seemed to emanate from his skin calm her. Dean ran his hands up and down her small back, feeling the knobs of her spine, trying to ignore the slight bump where her training bra covered her skin. She pressed her face into his shoulder, laying a kiss against his warm skin. Dean smiled, dropping his face into her hair, letting himself relax like he never could around anyone else. Her hands were small and warm against his back, her arms tight around him and her hair smelled like lemons and sea air.

The beep of the microwave jerked them apart, and Dean spun around to pull her dinner from the microwave. She slid off the table and onto one of the chairs, he set her meal down and turned around to put his own in the microwave. When she licked her lips she could taste Gun powder and Apples.

::

Later that night, she crawled into her own bed, shivering at the chill that crept through the thin cotton sheets. It was late, nearly one, and she knew she should've gone to bed earlier, but her stomach hurt and Starwars had been on, and honestly who was she to pass up watching Starwars with her big brother?

Sam fell into an uneasy sleep, the increasing pain in her stomach only won over by the heaviness of her eyelids and the steady rhythm of Dean's breath from the next bed.

::

_She's laying down—held in place by some invisible force, surrounded by pale silvery light, and soft warm blankets that brushed her skin. She stares at the ceiling, pale and smooth, clean. Sam shifts her eyes to the side, her breathing beginning to become slow and even, a soft voice seeping through the walls. Some part of Sam knows it's her mother singing, and so she lays very still, soaking it in, closing her eyes, just listening to the words—and now, she knows the name of the song she's singing. It floats into her mind, the answer already there before she needs to search for it. Hey Jude._

_The song cuts off with a choked scream of "You!" and Sam's eyes flash open, panicked—there's a searing pain in her stomach, bitter liquid seeping into her mouth and there's nothing she can do but swallow, and there—above her, are glowing yellow eyes. They burn into her, searing with hate and evil, and Sam wants to scream, want's to lash out, to get away—but she knows, somehow, what's next. _

_Fire, fire everywhere—and a writhing form on the ceiling, she can't even see the face, but she doesn't need to. She knows who it is, as the voice from before screams her name, and then there are arms around her, jerking motion and finally, blessed blackness._

::

Sam woke screaming.

The sound jerked Dean from his sleep, his hands already gripping the knife he keeps under his pillow—and Sam's still screaming, only now it's more sobs than anything, one hand gripping her stomach, the other gripping her head. Dean lurched out of bed, his feet tangling in duffel bags and the blankets he'd kicked off the bed, nearly falling into her he grabbed her cheeks, turning her head to look at him.

"Sammy, Sammy baby it's ok, stop screaming baby." He pulled her face into his shoulder, he pulled away the blankets to lift her out of bed and cursed. "Dammit." He lifted her up, out of the rapidly pooling puddle of blood forming under her. He ignored the sticky wet warmth that leaked into his shirt and over his arms, focusing on getting Sam into the bathroom.

She'd begun to quiet, now she cried softly, her cries punctuated by confused whimpers. As he set her down on the edge of the tub Sam realized something was really very wrong. "Dean why are you covered in blood?!" An edge of hysteria crept into her voice and Dean knew she'd start screaming again if she looked down. Her thin hands gripped the edge of the tub, staring at the deep red that was identifiable even in the moonlight. Her stomach ached and she felt like she was burning inside—the images from her dream seared into her brain. "Dean—"

"Sammy it's ok, I'm not hurt and neither are you I promise." Dean's eyes looked panicked, they were wide and he hadn't put his hands down, instead they were held away from his body as though he was looking for something to do. "Look, you're on something called a period. It makes you bleed."

"DON'T TELL ME I'M NOT HURT DEAN WINCHESTER, BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE THERES A DEMON IN MY STOMACH EATING ME, SO JUST SHUT UP AND TELL ME HOW TO MAKE IT STOP!" Sam yelled—agonizing pain suddenly making her seize up. Dean cursed and ran from the bathroom—his hands fumbling for the phone on the bedside table.

Sam wrapped her arms around her middle—leaning down and suddenly seeing the streaks of blood coming from her body and leaking down the white of the tub, dripping onto the tiles. She groaned low in her throat and tried to breathe only through her mouth. Every time she closed her eyes she could see the yellow eyes that had haunted her childhood, and the burning body on the ceiling—the images making her nauseous and hot, she could feel her hair sticking to her forehead and neck. She wanted to get up and puke into the toilet but she couldn't, the pain in her stomach kept her immobile.

Dean's fingers kept hitting the wrong buttons and he could hear Sammy whimpering in the bathroom. "FUCK!" He yelled.

"Whoa. Don't use that word." John's voice came from behind him, and he whipped around, relief flooding through him. The eldest Winchester dropped his bag by the door and rubbed his hands over his face, not seeing how his son's mouth worked, searching for words. John sighed and looked back into the room, spotting what he'd missed before and his blood went cold. "Where's Sam?" His fathers voice had gone deathly quiet and Dean followed his eyes to the blood stain.

"She's in the bathroom." Dean spun back to the doorway and took in the sight of Sam curled over her arms tight around her stomach, her hair sticking to her sweating skin. Dean's face flushed, taking in the puddle of blood slowly forming at the base of the tub.

"Dean.." She groaned, hearing him enter the bathroom. "Make it stop it hurts so bad.." She glanced up and saw John entering the cramped bathroom behind Dean. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Daddy, what do I do?" She asked—her eyes budding with tears.

"Oh, dammit Sam." John said, heading back to the room, his head spinning. He should've been more prepared, but it was supposed to be Mary's job, not his, and somehow, when they'd come back from the embarrassing shopping trip, the words just didn't come. He came back into the room with a bottle of extra strength Tylenol, and a glass of water. "Here, Sammy. Take these. Dean, go take the sheets off the bed, and find her new underwear and pants—" Dean left the room before John could finish, but that didn't matter, he'd tell him what was next later. When Sam had swallowed the pills he lifted her from the edge of the tub, trying not to look at the pool of blood where she'd been sitting, and set her down in the well of the tub, he pulled the curtain closed and told her to take off her pants and underwear and throw them over the top. She did and waited for the pain medicine to kick in.

"What now dad?" Dean asked, his voice still a little freaked. She listened to him and tried to focus on his voice and not the pain in her stomach.

"I have to go to the store and get stuff for Sam. Clean up the blood on the floor and then sit with her. I'll be back soon." Johns voice suddenly sounded like he'd aged a million years, and Sam realized what was happening. This was "her body changing in earnest". It was what they'd begun to teach in health class at the last school they'd been too, only to have them be jerked out the day they started the section. She wished they'd stayed longer, so she would've known what to expect. Another wave of pain rolled over her and she whimpered.

Dean pulled a towel from the rack, keeping his breaths slow and even, like his father had taught him to do when the breath was knocked out of him—because that's exactly what he felt like. Just earlier that day, he'd been thinking about this, about how it was right around the corner, and now it was here. Behind the thin plastic curtain, his little Sammy was suddenly different. She wasn't quite so little now.

"Dean.." Sam's stomach began to relax, the pain going from crippling to dull, and finally she was able to think clearly about the images rushing through her head. She'd never asked how her mother died, and so no one had told her. She'd always assumed it was a possession or something along those lines, but now she wasn't sure. The pictures behind her eyes, the fire, the strangled yell, the intense yellow eyes.. none of it matched up to anything she'd ever heard before.

"Yeah, Sammy?" She heard his movement pause, could feel the tension in him, the fear that something else was wrong.

"There was a fire, wasn't there." It's not a question.

Dean doesn't answer.


	2. Chapter 2

**I hope you guys, whoever is reading this, liked the last chapter—sorry for how long it was, it's just easier to motivate myself to get longer chapters done because it moves stuff along faster. Reviews are love.**

(One Year Later)

Sam shifted in the backseat of the Impala, her head aching with the thundering beat of Led Zeppelin booming through the car. Her father was drinking heavily in the front seat, his drunken voice joining with the chorus—only serving to make her head ache more. She just wanted to get to a motel, curl up in her own bed, and get some well deserved shut eye. They'd been in the car for hours—and right now it was all she could do to keep herself from crawling up the walls, her mind eating at her—never mind her sore arms from the digging they'd done, mud caked under her nails, bruises on her knees and shins, her hair was tangled and messy around her face, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

Dean leaned his head against the back of his seat, his eyes trained on the tan roof of the Impala, watching as the lights flickered over the material, casting distorted patterns in a rainbow of colors. He figured it wouldn't be long now before John would catch a lucid moment, just long enough to realize he was drunk and pull over. He stretched his legs out as best he could in front of himself, only getting half way before the front bench stopped him. His neck and back ached from his shifts digging, his hands were grimy and probably bleeding. There was aching silence, despite the thundering music—it weighed on him, settling below his ribcage and making him feel like he was sinking. His eyes slid to the side, finding the back of Sam's head as she stared out the window. Her hair had long since come out of the braid she'd tied it into, and it now hung around her in soft waves, the ponytail holder on the seat beside her. Even in the dark he could see the stiffness of her shoulders, the way she sat leaning away from the seat, just slightly.

Before the hunt, just a simple salt and burn, but this time Sam had to sit on the stupid stone and hold the flashlight until it was her damn turn, and that was the only way Dean agreed, she and John had another fight. Sam wanted to stay and go to school—it had been two months since they'd been in town long enough for her to even think about School, but this time around they'd been in one place for almost three months. It was the first time ever that she'd made friends, real friends. "For once in my life Dad, I have _normal _people to talk to! People who don't know what's out there, that still get to believe in things if they want! For once I was normal too! I had friends, not just _Dean!_" She hadn't meant it like it sounded, Dean knew that. But for a second, it actually hurt. He knew that it had been what she wanted, finally—a place where people didn't look at her like she was a total freak—a place where people invited her to do things, where she got to show off how smart she was, she'd even, almost had a first date. (Dean would never tell her that the kid wasn't going to show, because, maybe Dean was a little big to be threatening 13 year olds.) But Sam knew that she'd lost the second John said, "Grab a shovel and your bag. We're leaving after we torch the bones."

And so, there they were, hightailing it out of Tennessee, 110 miles per hour as though the devil himself were on their trail. Sam closed her eyes and tried to block out the music.

It wasn't long before John pulled over to the side of the road, tires squealing and dirt flying as he threw the Impala into park and turned off the engine. The cab was suddenly silent, and Dean's eyes cracked open, watching his father warily. For a long moment the hunter just stared out the windshield, his eyes glazed over with the alcohol and the familiar empty anger. The air outside the Impala, just beginning to warm, was still chilly—and before the heat from the engine ran down, John was snoring in the front seat, the bottle falling from his hand into the foot well. Dean could smell whiskey seeping into the floor.

Sam hadn't moved, her eyes were still closed, her body poised as though she was about to fling open the door and take flight, her eyes squinched closed like she was in pain—her head must hurt, but Dean knew his little sister better than to believe that she'd say anything about it. She might not talk at all, depending on her mood. He watched her, her body straining forward, before finally, she slumped back against the seat, opening her eyes which sparkled just a little too brightly for Dean to think that she was fine.

The feeling of Dean's arm around her shoulders shocked Sam, and her eyes slid up to him, wide and filled with tears that she'd been doing her best to keep locked up. She flushed, her fathers voice in her head, _Winchesters don't cry, Samantha. _But Dean, no matter how much he would protest, wasn't really all that much like John, and so he pulled her into his side and rubbed her back as she nuzzled closer, keeping her breathing slow and even so as not to wake her father. Her head ached, her stomach swooping, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs—but then she was breathing in Dean's comforting scent. Gun powder and Apples, and her head started to clear, her fingers digging into her big brothers sides, greedily breathing in his scent and letting it fill her up, until there was no room for the resentment of her father, or the desperation to be normal, or the confusing pain she felt when she thought of Dean growing up to be just like him.

Dean didn't say anything, as her tears soaked into the fabric of his shirt, her thin shoulders heaving. She had wanted that life so badly, and what was worse, she'd been so close to being able to have it—it had been so real for that short time, going to school, doing well on tests, her laughter a more common occurrence. She'd been liked, and while she was there, in the halls of that school, she hadn't felt like a hunters daughter.

::

It was like they were children again, Dean thought, as they wriggled around in the (suddenly much smaller) seat of the Impala, trying to find a way that worked for them both to lay down. Sam grunted quietly when Dean's elbow dug into her side, and he flashed her a grimace when her knee got a little too close for comfort, but finally they squeezed in together, chest to chest, her nose brushing his collarbone as she watched the Amulet, the one he teasingly called his 'Samulet' swing like a pendulum.

Her head was filled up with his scent, and how one of his arms was under her head like a pillow and the other was slung over her hips, his fingers rubbing warmth into her skin, their legs tangled together like it used to be. Logically, Sam knew she was getting too old to be cramped into this tiny space with her big brother, his breath ruffling her hair, his arms keeping her warm until the dawn—but she secretly hoped that this would never end.

Dean pulled her closer, melding their bodies together as he tried to keep her as warm as possible, pulling his coat from the floor where he'd dropped it earlier and laying it over them like a blanket. Sam pressed her cold face, still slightly wet with tears, into the hollow of his throat, taking comfort in him like she always had, always would. He felt her feather light kiss against his skin and smiled, squeezing her hip lightly. Distantly, he could hear the sounds of other cars racing past on the busy road—none of them paying attention to the black '67 Chevy Impala pulled over on the side of the road. This was their life, and Dean was remembering how, to Sam, this was her _whole_ life. For her, there was no memory, no matter how faint, of a life before this—of a John who wasn't a hunter. No memory at all of Mary, or their big house in Lawrence, of the tree with the swing out back, and the four solid walls of the playroom, papered with balloons and ice cream cones. No, all that Sam could possibly remember was nights like this. Blood and fear, pain and tears and denial, unwilling to believe that this was all there could be for her. The anger was roaring within him, and then he heard her soft voice whisper against his skin, "_Hey Jude, don't make it bad, Take a sad song and make it better, Remember to let her into your heart,Then you can start to make it better.."_

Sam felt him tense against her, his mind spinning with thoughts she wasn't hearing, and wondered what they were. She could feel his fingers getting tighter and tighter around her hip, until she could feel the bones of his hand grinding into the edge of her hipbone. She stared up at his face, as best as she could through her bangs, and saw the tenseness of his jaw, the flashing steel in his eyes. Her throat closed up, her eyes going wide as his hand clamped down on her, lost in his mind—it didn't hurt, not really, but there would be a bruise, and if John saw it, asked about it, Dean would tell him before she could lie and say that she'd hit herself on a rock, or the shovel—and that would mean that Dean would get in trouble, because his number one policy was "Never lie to Dad." Someday, she thought grimly, that policy is going to shatter into a million pieces.

The idea popped into her mind, and before thinking it through, her mouth was already open, the tune crawling it's way up her throat. Her breath pushed against his skin, and she felt him jump in surprise, the song slowly filling the car.

Dean's breath stopped in his lungs, just hearing her sing the song he'd always sang to her, and their mother sang to them before that—her voice almost an exact copy of Mary's. For a second, he felt like he was a tiny child again, held in his mothers arms, being rocked to sleep by her sweet voice and the words of "Hey Jude".

Sam wrapped her arms around him, her thin fingers combing through the hair at the back of his neck, slow and gentle. She whispered the words like a promise into the skin of his throat, her voice soft, like a secret—low so they didn't wake their father. She pressed closer, wriggling against him so that she could hold him as he'd always held her when her anger and fear had become too much. He held onto her desperately, needing to feel his baby sister in his arms and assure himself that despite everything, she was wonderful and soft and sweet and warm still—that she wasn't turning into him or their father or Bobby—that she was still _Sam. _And she _was_, she held him tighter as he buried his head in her long, sweet smelling hair, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulders, scratching lightly at the hairs at the back of his neck, her voice bubbling around him like a stream, pulling him into deeper water.

She felt it when Dean fell asleep, felt the way his arms went slack around her, his fingers twitching against her back, his head heavy on her neck. His warm breath erased the last of the chill, and she settled in, her headache nothing but a distant memory—now she was warm and safe, the faces of her almost friends already being forgotten. What did they matter? Why did she think they were so great, again? They had houses and beds and closets and backyards and pets and Moms—but she had something better. She had Dean.

::

The Winchesters rolled into a motel the next day at noon—the windows rolled down to ease the smell of whiskey that had slowly permeated the car, Sam's legs stretched out over Dean's lap, her head resting against the door, watching the clouds over head.

It wasn't fancy, no better than the last, or the one before that—nestled into some nameless town in Missouri. John climbed out of the car, only slightly off kilter as he walked into the main office to book the room. Sam watched him go, watching the way he held his head straight up, his limbs barley shaking—he was the most talented liar she'd ever seen, and it made her unwillingly proud. "We'd better get the bags." Dean said, his hands pushing her legs off his lap, she nodded absently, pulling herself up and out of the car—not even bothering to open her door, just sliding out the window.

"How do you think he does it?" She asked, waiting as Dean slid the key into the lock on the trunk.

"Does what?" He asked, grabbing his duffel and their dad's, moving aside so she could grab her own, and the medical bag. Dean slammed the trunk shut and they started moving toward the building. She shifted the bag higher on her shoulder as she saw her Dad push back through the glass doors and walk down the length of the building.

"Act like he's not so hung over, he's still pissing straight whiskey?" Dean choked on a laugh and slung one arm around her shoulders, pulling her smaller form against his side. Sam smiled a little as well, quickly wiping her expression when John turned back to see what they were laughing about—finding only innocent faces. He narrowed his eyes at them, still suspicious, but the ache in his head seemed like a far more pressing matter so he shrugged it off and threw open the door to their room.

Sam shuffled in after John, smirking slightly and chose the bed the farthest from the door, knowing that John always took the closer one—ever the protector. Dean followed after her and tossed his stuff next to hers, flopping down on the bed, making the springs squeal. John winced and headed to the bathroom."Oh, I say." Sam said when her father had closed the door to the bathroom after himself, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "Five stars."

::

They were dancing again—loud music pulsing through the room, their yells of the lyrics, not even trying to be considered singing. Sam jumped up on the bed, her voice reaching pitches that would make a dog cry, but Dean just pounded out the beat against the flimsy table.

Neither one had mentioned last night, and Sam was just glad that John hadn't woken to hear her singing. The last time he'd heard her sing he'd grabbed onto her arms in his drunkenness and left dark purple marks for days. She'd had to hide the marks from Dean, terrified of the fight that would break out. So, needless to say, it was a good idea to be very careful around John Winchester. Thankfully, he'd left shortly after they'd arrived, saying he'd be gone maximum of a week.

Dean spun out, falling to his knees when the guitar solo came on, ripping through the room—Sam pretended to be holding a microphone and sang until, when finally the song was over, her throat was scratchy and raw, but Dean's smiling and so it hardly matters. She falls back on the bed, Dean crawling over to climb up next to her. It's late, probably already midnight, they'd been singing for hours—desperately trying to ease the tension of last night, and the slowly blooming bruise on Sam's hip isn't helping matters—but that's just one more thing she'll keep quiet about, for Dean's own good.

"God, I'm tired." Dean murmurs next to her, his face pressed into the stiff comforter. He pushes himself up slightly, turning to look at her face. Her hair had been torn from the loose ponytail she'd had it in, and now strips of it hung over her face and neck, he can see the beat of her heart, pushing against the skin over her ribs and laughs. "Worn out, Sammy?" He asks teasingly, pulling her hair from her flushed skin. She makes a face at him, slapping his hand away and sitting up—he watches her hair fall down her back like chocolate in a fountain and smiles. She's got a simple beauty that he doubts she sees. Its obvious though—the delicate features, the wide eyes, milky skin and soft waves. At the last town, the boys had started to take notice. Even boys just a grade below Dean had watched her walk by, noticing her slim waist and curvy hips. She'd only started to change last year, but she was practically a new person, her cheeks were thinner, no more baby fat, her legs were sleek and muscled, her waist curved into an hourglass shape and her breasts beginning to show. He flushed with anger, remembering the low whistles of appreciation she'd gotten from a Sophomore at their last school.

"I'm thirsty. You want something?" Sam asks, pushing herself up off the bed and pulling her arms over her head. She twisted around to look back at Dean, his eyes still glazed from whatever thoughts he'd been having. She rolled her eyes. "No, wait, I know. Beer." She grinned at him and walked over to the kitchenette, pulling open the fridge and taking out a beer for him. She spun back around, twisting off the cap and taking a sip herself before handing it over. Dean gave her a weak slap on the leg, knowing he should probably be more strict about her having beer, even if she didn't have it much. She laughed, twisting up her face and sticking her tongue out at him. Dean snorted, raising an eyebrow at her. "What?" She asked, her face flushing.

"Nothing." He said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he lifted the bottle to his mouth. Sam yawned next to him, sinking back into the bed and laying her head on his thigh. Dean rested his hand on her head, lacing his fingers through her soft hair. "You're growing up so fast." He said, his mind flipping through pictures of her. He'd watched her grow, from diapers to guns, it had all happened too quickly, and John had missed out on it. Dean sighed, pushing away that thought, it was a battle for another day. Sam shifted, moving her eyes to meet her brothers, for a moment they were sad.

"You are too, De." She said, struggling not to sound sad. Every day he was becoming more and more of a hunter, and next year.. Next year he'd be one, officially. He'd leave her on her own and hunt all the time with their Dad. He'd hunt Demons and Wendigos and Ghosts and Sam would be on her own in a motel, wondering if he was alive, about to turn up at the door, bloody and beaten. A slight shiver ran through her and she bit her lip hard. "You're all.. muscley and grown up now." She said, swallowing down the tight feeling in her throat. Sam could feel Dean's laughter from her spot on his leg—the steadying vibrations and the rough, deep sound filled the room and Sam wished she could wrap the sound around herself and keep it with her, so that when he left to go fight the never ending war, she'd have something to hold on to.

::

It was late, too late for Dean to be awake when he woke—he knew it had to be early early morning, before the sun had begun to make it's appearance, and so with a heavy sigh he began to turn over, wishing to return to the dream he'd been having about his Mother, when something stopped him.

Sam's small form was draped over his bed, he noted with amusement, even though she'd crawled into her own before going to sleep. Now, her skinny body was stretched out alongside his, the fingers of her right hand brushing the fabric of his T-shirt, long chocolate hair spread against the white sheets, her skin flushed and rosy from the warmth rolling off of their bodies. Dean paused, just looking down at her, watching the slight movement of her chest as it rose and fell, the subtle twitch of her nose as she dreamt._ Samantha Henrietta Winchester, _He thought, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He reached out, wrapping one smooth lock of hair around his finger, feeling it catch against the callouses on his skin, _You are beautiful._

Dean laid there a moment longer, just watching her as her body twitched, her eyes shifting behind her lids, deeply in sleep—if he believed in god, he would pray for good dreams for her, but he knew that god was pretty much just a bedtime story in this world of terror and blood. For now, she wasn't a part of it, and he let himself enjoy that, for her. She sighed in her sleep, her lips falling open, soft words dripping from her open mouth, garbled murmurs of his name warming his heart. His throat swelled closed, his eyes going wide and soft as she smiled in her sleep. Without thinking about it, Dean reached out and wrapped his arms tightly around her, pressing his face into her silky hair, smiling as she stirred, pulling her head back to look at him. He cut off her sleepy apology, saying simply, "Go back to sleep." Sam smiled, looking like a tiny child in his arms again, and pressed a sloppy kiss just a tad too close to his lips before she sank back into his embrace, her face pressing into his shoulder, her breathing evening out again before he knew it.

In a perfect world, Dean thought, Sam wouldn't have nightmares and crawl into his bed—she'd have her own bedroom, a closet filled with clothes that weren't picked because of durability and price. Mary would be there when she cried over a bad dream, or a broken bone—and she'd never want for anything. But, this wasn't a perfect world, and Dean knew that, feeling his body weigh heavily with guilt as her t-shirt slid up her hip and revealed the pale blue bruise, in the shape of his hand. None of it was fair, he thought, his eyes reflexivity darting around the room to check salt lines. She wanted so many things, things that John just couldn't—wouldn't give her. They were things that Dean didn't understand, couldn't, it was too far gone for him, he was almost out of high school and she was set to begin—it was too late for Dean to do anything else, he'd been on this path, irreversibly, since he was four. But, Sam? Sam could do so much. She was so smart, he thought with pride. Always getting A's—skipping through the door holding the papers up, great big smiles on her face as she pushed past John(on the off occasion that he was actually there) to show them to Dean. There was nothing in the whole world Sam liked doing more than curling up, a warm coffee in her hand, in a library with a good book while Dean and John researched—she'd lose herself in tales of Pirates and Fairies, sinking into literature and escaping. She was that type, loved knowledge and stories, loved to figure things out, always enraptured in finding the truth from the novels he'd sometimes smuggle out for her. She would give him big toothy grins, her dimples flashing, and she'd pounce on the book, losing herself in it for hours, escaping between the covers. If she wanted to, Dean knew, if there was anyway, she could be something great—something that didn't involved blood and death and this life. But, he sighed deeply, Sam was a Winchester—and Winchesters were hunters.

Sam's fingers wound into the loose fabric of Dean's shirt, her breath warm against his collarbone, shifting in her sleep. His large hand spread almost all the way across her back, and he couldn't help but compare how big, lithe maybe, but still big, to how birdlike she was—so small and fragile looking. Sam could best most grown men in hand to hand combat, but laying here wrapped around him like a second skin, she looked to him like glass. It had been a long time since he'd been afraid to touch her, since she was tiny enough to still be considered a baby, all pudgy cheeks and tiny fingers, gripping tightly onto any part of Dean that was close enough—his hand, his hair.. She'd been stuck to him like glue since the beginning, ever since their mother died, Dean was the only one who could make her stop crying, could convince her to eat her meat loaf, and allowed him close enough to put her to sleep after nightmares. Even now, she rarely let John too close—always shifting along with Dean as though they were bound together by some invisible thread. Dean wondered if she even noticed anymore—most times he didn't, it had taken one of the kids at the last school pointing it out for him to realize that they _did_ move like that. Sam's eyes wouldn't even flicker to him anymore, she'd just move on instinct, like gravity. John had said something once, that it would make them a fierce duo in battle. Dean supposed it was true, having someone that knew his moves before he made them, and if anyone would, could, it would be Sammy, would be damn near impossible to beat—but just the thought of Sam in danger like that made him shudder.

He was becoming a broken record—but he didn't want this for her. Sam was too good, too young and innocent and _perfect_, and he wanted her to stay that way. She didn't need blood, of any kind, on her hands. It was Dean's job to protect her, John had made that his job that night, shoving his tiny baby sister into his arms and making him run—fast as his little legs could go, choking on smoke and sobs, terror filling him as the image of his mom burning up engrained itself into memory. Since then, that moment, his entire purpose had been "_Keep Sam safe, no matter what."_ But how could he protect her when the only way to make sure she was safe, was to make sure she could protect herself? He'd always thought guns and knives looked wrong in her pale hands, but she'd mastered them before the age of 10, and there was nothing he could do but let it happen—let her slowly become a soldier. But, god, if he could he'd change it all—tuck her into a bed of her own and give her a life that was worth his beautiful, amazing, baby sister.

::

Alarm clocks, Sam thought, were devil contraptions. The blaring sound of some country song that was popular at the time, a thick southern drawl ringing in her head. Sam groaned, levering herself up from the bed, her legs hopelessly entangled in the cheap cotton sheets. She could hear humming from the bathroom, the door slightly cracked and letting steam pour out—the faint sound of running water greeted her as she slid her feet to the floor.

"Are you honestly singing this freaking song?" She grouched, shoving her shoulder into the door and making it swing open. Dean just laughed from behind the shower curtain, pulling it aside enough to see his face and shoulders.

"Well good morning, Sunshine." He smiled, the slight crinkles around his eyes lighting up his whole face. He was too young for them, she knew, but they made him look more.. Dean-ish. "How'd you sleep?" His hair sent little drops of water to collect on his eye lashes, made them sparkle and Sam couldn't help but notice that her brother was beautiful. He watched her, his tan skin flushed from the warmth of the water, little droplets sliding down his neck, over his collarbones, and Sam's stomach got warm and twisty feeling as she jerked her gaze away.

"Fine.." She said, turning to the mirror to pull her hair back from her face, desperate for a distraction. "About that, actually—sorry for.. well, I didn't want to wake you, you looked so peaceful." She said, pulling her hair back with savage force, trying to push out the flush she could feel working it's way up her chest, the confusing feeling in her stomach that she didn't have a name for. In the shower, Dean laughed, his deep voice bouncing off the tiles, reverberating around the room—the sound so familiar that it made her smile.

"It's fine, Sammy." Dean said, reaching down to turn off the water. She watched his arm grope along the wall for the towel. She sighed in exasperation when she noticed it crumpled on the ground. _He's hopeless. I swear._ Sam bent down and grabbed the towel, pressing the cloth into her brothers wet palm, watching with a tight throat as his long fingers closed around it, his smile visible through the crack in the curtain and wall. "Thanks, baby girl."

"M-Mhmm." Sam nodded, turning to leave the bathroom. When the door closed behind her, she sank onto the bed, her head spinning in the cooler air—now free of the moist heat that had threatened to choke her. She pressed her hands to her face, fighting for composure. _What is going on? It's just Dean, god._ But somehow that thought didn't help. Her stomach flipped, hearing him singing along to the song on the radio through the thin door, how he horribly missed notes and grated out instrumental solos that he firmly believed were meant to be sung, "for the whole experience." He'd say, flashing her the special smile he always saved, _just for her. _Sam felt her mouth twitching up, her face warm and her palms sweaty.

Dean bumped the door open with his hip, his jeans still unbuttoned, his shirt hanging from his fingers. He bobbed his head to the song, walking with his bowlegged stride to the fridge, pulling out the orange juice Sam had begged for and taking a large mouthful, ignoring the disapproving clicking of Sam's tongue behind him. She watched as the last of the water from his shower trailed down his muscled back, her eyes trailing them without her permission as they rolled below the waistband of his jeans, disappearing. He took another swallow from the carton to annoy her, and when he turned around his mouth was fighting down a smile. She rolled her eyes, an unwilling laugh forcing it's way up her too tight throat as he pulled on his shirt. Half of her sagged in disappointment, the other relief, as the dark blue t-shirt covered his smooth skin. _What is wrong with me?_

He spun around, his fingers turning the dial on the radio, raising the volume. Sam watched in helpless amusement as Dean shook his hips and mimed singing into a microphone. "We should be sparring. Practicing. Doing _something _productive!" She yelped as he pulled her up from the bed, spinning her around three times until she was a mass of giggles and messy hair, falling against him as his hands latched onto her hips and moved her in a silly dance. He kept singing, his voice going right to her head, his breath close to her skin—fresh and heady and _Dean_ assaulting her senses. They kept moving, spinning and dancing, laughing and crashing against each other, fighting to stay upright. Dean's hands wrapped around her skinny waist, his fingers individually burning her up through her shirt as he lifted her to be face to face with him, her hands scrabbling on his wide shoulders, searching for purchase feeling like she was falling despite knowing he'd never let that happen. Sam's head was filled with his exhaled breath and the deep rumble of his voice, her eyes wide and sparkling. Dean leaned forward as the song ended, pressing his lips to her forehead, breathing in the clean scent of her, smiling against her skin as he felt her arms wrap around his neck. These were moments he'd miss later, when she got too old to want to hang out with her big brother, and so he'd cherish each of these moments for when he couldn't anymore.

Sam pressed as close to him as she could, feeling the shifting of her insides finally quell, content in his arms. "I love you, De." She said into his shirt, smiling as she felt his arms tighten around her.

"I love you, too, Sammy."

::

**Three weeks later.**

Sam narrowed her eyes, glaring distrustfully at the girl that was wrapped around Dean's arm—her long red hair shining in the weak light peeking through the clouds. Voices rose and fell all around her, the students of this nameless high school milling about on the open grass, paper bags and lunch trays balanced on books. Sam had no apatite for the turkey sandwich she'd packed that morning, grimacing with distaste and dropping it back in the bag as her eyes once again found Dean and the girl.

What was this one's name, she wondered? Who was she? From her place by the bleachers, with Dean headed straight for her, the girl wrapped around him like plastic wrap, she could see the girls features, delicate but plain, wide blue eyes trained on the side of Dean's face. Sam rolled her eyes and swung her feet over the side of the bleachers, dropping to the ground and taking off running to her brother. Dean, grinning, stepped away from Red and crouched to Sam's height—grabbing her up in his arms as she collided with him, arms wrapping around his neck, legs around his waist. "Hello, Samantha." He teased.

"Dean." She said, seriously. "Who's your friend?" She asked, only a tiny bit of mocking leak into her voice—Dean caught it and pinched her side. She smiled at him, all teeth and crinkled up eyes.

"Carrie." Red said, stepping forward. "And you must be, Sammy." Sam's eyes flashed. _Only Dean calls me that, whore._ Red stuck her hand forward, and, cringing on the inside, Sam took it.

"Just Sam, thanks." She said, letting go of Dean and dropping a full foot. She turned and climbed back up the bleachers, smiling when she heard the heavy clang of Dean's boots on the metal, following her. She settled back into her spot, pulling her coat around her as a chilly breeze blew over the field. "So, Brother Dearest—Forget lunch again?" She smirked and shoved the bag into his hands. He winked at her appreciatively and pulled the sandwich out.

"Thanks, Sammy." She pretended not to notice the way Carrie's eyebrows raised at the nickname, her eyes darting between the two. "Having fun yet?" He asked, taking a bite.

"No." She said, laughing and tucking her hair behind her ear. She watched him gobble up her sandwich, reaching back into the bag for the bottle of water. "Two people have already mispronounced our name. It's not that hard, I mean really." Sam rolled her eyes, exasperated. Dean laughed, his green eyes sparkling in the weak sun that struggled through the clouds. It was always a joke to Dean—sometimes it seemed like everything was. Some day's that was nice, this, however, was not one of them. Out of the corner of her eye, Sam saw Carrie lean toward him, her face all eager and starstruck, like Dean was some kind of Greek Adonis. Sam snorted.

"Lighten up, Sammy." There was that name again—it made her feel like she was two years old again, toddling around hanging onto Dean's pant legs. She glared at him, not wanting to reprimand him, because it obviously frustrated Carrie that Sam blatantly didn't like her. "Lunch is almost over," He said, even though Sam knew it wasn't true, finished the last of the sandwich and standing up, crumpling the bag in his fist. "You should head back to class—wouldn't want you to be late, nerd." He ruffled the top of her head affectionately—Sam rolled her eyes and hopped up, clambering onto the next level so that for once, she was taller than her big brother. She knew what that was code for—it meant get going so I can fuck Red under these bleachers and Sam wasn't about to let that happen.

"You said you'd walk me." She blurted, her eyes darting back and forth between Carrie and Dean. Instantly Dean was trying to dig up the memory of when he'd said that—she knew he wouldn't find one. "Please, De?" She begged before he could open his mouth—her eyes going big and soft, the trick that Sam had learned from years of experience and adorable puppies in shop windows. Sam watched Carrie watching Dean watching Sam, her eyes shifting from his eyes to his jaw to his muscled shoulders, defined even under his thick jacket. She wanted to punch the girl, (an innocent girl, she tried to remind herself) in the face for looking at her brother like that, like he was some kind of prized possession she was being forced to sell. The rage bubbled in her stomach, surprising her with it's potency.

"Not today, Samantha." Dean's voice had gone hard, and Sam gaped at him, hurt rolling over her face. Carrie smiled triumphantly, slipping her hand into Dean's. The rage surged within her, and Sam bent down to grab her bag off the slowly warming metal. Her head held high, she shoved her way between them, her shoulder knocking into Carrie's chest on the way down. Sam grinned at her pained gasp, satisfaction surging through her.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, steadying Carrie as she wobbled precariously on the bleachers. "Get back here!"

"Have fun with your Whore, Dean." Sam said, spinning back around, her middle finger waving in the air. The anger on Dean's face was plain to see, even as far away as half the field. She felt the hot wave of anger and sadness wash over her—she was losing Dean to some.. some.. redheaded slut. Sam shook her head, shoving the doors of the school open, wondering if he'd follow her.

The answer, was no.

_Well fuck him._ She steamed, pushing past two boys on their way out to eat lunch, ignoring the startled, "Watch it!" that followed her down the hall. _He can have fun, get herpes and explain to dad later. See. If. I. Fucking. Care._ Sam finally made her way to her locker, slamming her back against it and leaning her head back, her chest heaving with anger and disappointment. They'd only been in this school a few days, after John had called and informed them that Bobby had called with a bigger hunt a few states away—that he'd be gone a few months and he'd mailed school forms, and already she was losing Dean.

It wasn't like Sam didn't know it was going to happen—that he'd catch the eye of some girl (all of them) and be swept away in a haze of flowing hair and batted eyelashes, she just kinda hoped it wouldn't be so soon. Tears of anger burned behind her eyes and she turned away from the mostly empty hall. She fumbled with the lock on the door, shifting her threadbare backpack higher on her shoulder and fighting down the tightness in her throat. This was bull shit. Complete bull shit, and she knew it. Dean was supposed to pick her over _anyone_ that was just the way it went—but he'd looked back at Carrie, and decided that getting laid under the bleachers was more important than walking his sister to class.

Outside, Dean was probably pressed up against that stupid whore, his hands tangled in her hair, full lips moving against hers, probably seconds away from getting into her pants. Sam's lip curls in disgust as she slams the locker door open, ignoring the deafening clang that resounds through the hall. He's probably moving one thin fingered hand up her shirt, feeling the beat of her heart through the fabric of her bra, breathing, hot air across her neck. Sam jerks her mind away—feeling tears well in her eyes.

Samantha Winchester hates a lot of things. She hates hamburgers and bananas, has an odd dislike for french accents, despises hunting and all the things to be hunted, she hates her father for never being there, and she hates the mind numbing sameness of motel rooms—but the thing she hates the most? This. Being left, one upped, dropped, forgotten in favor of some slut in too tight jeans and caked on makeup. She hates the feeling of unease and hate and maybe even _jealousy_ that never fails to roll through her blood and curl in her stomach. She hates the look of satisfaction on those girls faces when she passes by them on the way to class, the heavy content look of someone who'd just had the fuck of their life. She hates the way they walk, and the way their painted nails scrape the back of Dean's hands as they head to class, fingers twined. She hates the skinny waists and boobs that they thrust toward Dean every chance they get. She hates that it's _them_ he turns his attention to. It should be, always should be, _her._

Sam bites back a scream and yanks books off the shelves, shoves them in her bag, their faces flashing in her head. Julia in Wyoming, Mindy in Texas, Hannah in New Jersey, Gina in North Dakota, Kathy in Nevada, Quinn in California, Lilly in Florida, Valarie in Missouri, Rachel in Ohio, Destiny in Connecticut, Jamie in Virginia—so many she loses count. Finally, Sam has had enough—the bang of her locker slamming closed and her angry, heavy footsteps ring in the silence and then she's out the door, past the field, not even bothering to look. She keeps going, past the science building and the huge domed structure of the pool, not stopping when she came to the road, only moving faster as their faces fed the fire in her stomach.

Spring in this place felt closer to winter, but at the moment, in her haze of anger she can't remember what state it even is—she doesn't care, when she finally finds what she's looking for. A park. It's old, she can tell, the wood chipping and splintering, the paint on the chains of the swings peeling away to reveal dusky gray. She tosses her bag at the base of the swings, throwing herself into one and pushing off from the ground.

The creaking of the hinges breaks through the cloud of hate, giving her a breath, air to breathe. The faces of those multitudes of girls that Dean had been chasing since he was Fourteen finally blur out of focus—but the hurt doesn't. The feeling clenches in her gut, and she knows that by now he's inside that girl, his hands on her hips, her mouth streaming moans, hands raking into Dean's back—he's probably panting above her, giving her a little bit of himself as he always does, leaving hickeys on her neck and chest that will last long after he's gone. Sam's seen those marks left in return along the curve of his collarbone, has named the color lust purple and knows the scent of cheap motel cologne to cover up the scent of sex. She feels the nausea roll in her stomach, crawling up her throat and for a second is genuinely afraid that she'll vomit all over the thawing ground. Instead, a ragged sob leaps from her mouth and hot tears roll down her cheeks. The motto of _Winchesters never cry_ withers and dies, as once again, Sam proves herself to be nothing more than a sniveling child, curling into herself on a playground swing in a state she forgot the name of.

::

Dean walked out from under the bleachers, pulling his jacket back on—his hair a tousled mess that screamed sex and satisfaction. Behind him, Carrie swiped at the smudged lip gloss that's spread around her mouth. Her tiny hand clamps around his, her fingers too short and her nails scraping the back of his hand. She's nice. Pretty, sweet and quiet, her manner one that makes her easy to like in the thick falsity of school, but too bland and empty to make into a real person outside. She tries a little too hard, he thinks, as she flips her hair over one shoulder and fixes the signature "Just fucked" grin on her face. He wants to laugh, because it's typical and he's comfortable in the rhythm of her stylish tennis shoes crunching grass as she hurries to keep up with his long strides.

As he watches, students began herding back to the school, after lunch chatter becoming louder the closer they got, and Dean doesn't bother to search for Sam's head among the crowd—knowing that after their argument she'd probably headed inside to sulk. He tries to ignore the stab of guilt that accompanies the thought of Sam's anger flushed face, heading away from him. She was over reacting, he tried to justify. Acting like a kid, he thinks, ignoring the desperate tinge that's taken his thoughts. Inside, he knew that she was genuinely upset for some reason that he couldn't understand—or maybe just didn't want to. Either way, he'd have hell to pay when he got home that night, and it wasn't something he was looking forward to dealing with.

::

Sam ran out of tears eventually, after what seemed like forever. The dry burn behind her eyes told her she couldn't cry more if she wanted to, and her mouth tasted like cotton.

The watch on her wrist informed her that it was almost time for school to let out, and there was a small flutter of nervousness in her stomach when she realized that Dean would've noticed she was gone by now—but it was quickly deadened by the fact that she didn't care. The swing kept creaking, the sound the only noise in the whole park, breaking the silence with the whine of metal on metal. She leaned her head back, letting her hair fall back, thick and dark, swaying in the wind. Sam tried, really really really tried not to think about her brother and his faceless whores anymore. She didn't need the replay of the time she stayed, crouching behind the trash can's and watched as Dean made love to some blonde in Tulsa, Arizona. She had run before he'd found her, eyes wide and full of longing she didn't understand. Still didn't. But the image was burned into her brain, the golden tan of his shoulders beaded with sweat, the dark blonde of his hair jarring against the gray dirt as the little blonde was swallowed whole by the glow that surrounded Dean. His muscled back clenching and shoulders rolling with each rhythmic snap of his hips against hers. She'd never looked at the girl—not even once.

Agitated with herself, Sam slipped off the seat, resigning herself to the fact that even if she didn't care about Dean yelling—she didn't want John to find out, lest he beat her while Dean went out for food after he got back. The dirt shifted under her worn boots, and she felt like her bag weighed a thousand pounds. She shouldered it anyway, and began the trek back to the Motel, the only sound was that of her grating breaths.

The road led to the business section of town, and with a few turns and a little luck, she arrived back before Dean, the emptiness of the room a relief. She tossed her bag down and went to the fridge, her anger rolling. Sam didn't care that she wasn't even Fourteen yet. Didn't care that her dad would kick up a fuss and that her mom would've never approved. She needed a beer, and she'd be damned if she didn't get one. The metal dug into her skin as she twisted off the cap, tossed it into the sink, ignoring the little _ping _sound it made. She took a gulp, the bitter liquid gushing into her mouth, promising relaxation.

After a few more gulps, the Motel door swung open to a blank faced Dean. Sam could see the worry in his eyes, even if his face was hard as stone, and tried not to feel guilty. When he laid eyes on her, his shoulders sagged just slightly, and then they were rigid again, anger blooming across his face, his mouth contorting, holding back the venomous words he wanted to say. Sam just watched him, standing by the door, and lifted the bottle to her lips again.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Sam?" Dean's voice ripped through the air so suddenly that it almost startled her, but she stayed still, fighting against the instinct to sass back and make an ass of herself. "You skipped school? Jesus fucking Christ, Sam. How could you be so fucking _stupid_?" He slammed his hand against the table, making the cheap wood shudder. Sam blinked, turning away again and taking one last pull from the bottle, sucking it dry. In her head all she could see was the image of herself, curled up on that swing, crying for a reason she didn't really understand. The only words in her entire mind, staining the blank calm, _It should've been me._

"Answer me Samantha Winchester!" Dean yelled, his hand slamming into the table again, and this time there was a creaking groan. "Because before today I never thought of you as such a _fucking brat_."

A cord snapped. "A _brat_? Oh, my apologies King Dean, I forgot that you're the only one who matters! I forgot that _meaningless sex_ is more important than me! _How fucking stupid of me, right, Dean?!"_ The scream was cut off as she shoved herself into the bathroom, slamming the door with enough force to crack the frame, sending tiny flakes of paint fluttering down to the carpet. Behind the cheap wood, Sam slid to the floor, her back pressed to the cool porcelain of the tub, her hands over her mouth, trying to keep the pained noises inside. She'd never felt such anger, all packed into one day, and none of it made sense. Sure, she'd always felt stirrings of resentment when Dean would disappear to go with one of his replaceable sluts, but she'd always reminded herself that she was the one girl in Dean's life that _couldn't _be replaced. The only one that got to watch him make moony faces over pie, and dance awkwardly with her when the radio blasted away horrors that they didn't want to face. She knew all of Dean's favorite movies and all of the reoccurring nightmares he'd had since he was four—she knew the scar on his upper leg so well, because she'd been the one to sew it closed, she knew exactly how he took his coffee and that he only snored during blizzards and that his passion was the Impala, that he knew every song Kansas had ever made, and his favorite thing in the world was Christmas, with a tree, and old black and white movies on the TV, the one time that John could almost be counted on to be home. She knew _Dean_, and for as long as she could remember, that had been enough. But not today.

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard her sob from behind the bathroom door. He knew she'd been angry, but angry Sam didn't usually mean tears, yet he could clearly hear her, shuddering, chest racking sobs that sounded like they hurt. He rubbed his hands over his face, thinking about Carrie and how it hadn't been worth listening to Sam like this. Guilt fell heavily on his shoulders, wrapped around his throat and pulled tight, because sure, she may have scared the ever living fuck out of him, and he'd only _just_ managed to cover for her, but there was something wrong. Something that no doubt was more than just Carrie, and it was his fault she was crying like that. He hesitated, still standing by the door, his legs locked in place, at first too angry, and now too shocked to move, and stared with wide eyes at the bathroom door.

_I should go in there. _He thought, moving towards the door, his footsteps slow and clumsy in his hesitation. _This is my fault, it's my fault she's crying. God, _he thought_, I'm never thinking with my dick again._ Even though that most likely wasn't true, he swore to it anyway. Sam's sobs ripped through the thin wood, faintly muffled, almost like she was trying to hold them back—and that only made him feel worse. She didn't want him to hear her cry, when all along it had always been his job to make her stop, to make her feel better. He was supposed to be the one that _never_ made her cry—and yet there he stood, one hand hesitating over the brass door knob, wondering what to do.

::

The door creaked open but Sam refused to look up, kept her eyes focused on the toes of her dirty boots, her face streaked with tears, her eyes swollen and red. She listened as Dean cautiously stepped into the room, finding her curled against the side of the tub—her thin hands like claws around her legs. The urge to sob again pressed up her throat, and she whimpered, fighting it back.

Dean crouched in front of her, reaching for her hands. She didn't fight him, but he could tell she wanted to, still he took it as a tiny victory and rubbed the backs of her hands with his calloused thumbs. Sam sighed, her throat raw and aching, her eyes sore—she was a mess, and something in her chest cringed at the thought of Dean looking at her like this. _Don't be stupid. He's seen you cry a million times, he's changed your diapers and bathed you all your life.._ Still, the queasy, tight feeling remained and she focused her eyes onto the leather toes of her boots—determined to find something interesting about them.

"Sammy.. I'm sorry." Dean said, his voice gruff. Her eyes flickered to him for a split second, shock in her pretty hazel eyes. "I shouldn't have yelled at you—" Anger clouded over again and she wrenched her hands away.

"That's not the problem, Dean." She snapped, climbing awkwardly to her feet. "The _problem_ is that you chose that skank over me." The door slammed in his face for the second time that night, and he cursed, rubbing his face with his hands. Outside, he could hear her flop onto the bed, the springs squealing from the sudden impact. _How did I even manage to fuck up my apology?_ He thought angrily. He stood up and began shucking off his clothes—if he couldn't go driving, (which he couldn't—John had taken the Impala) then he'd have to settle for a steaming shower, to hopefully wash off the cloying perfume that clung to his skin.

When the whole room was filled with steam, fogging the mirror and seeping out beneath the door—Dean climbed under the water, ignoring the burn on his skin, embracing the pain as it cleared his mind.

He'd just been so scared when he couldn't find her after last period—when she didn't come out of her World History class with an amused smirk on her face that she'd no doubt learned from him, and gloated about how she'd bested another person in the mythology of ancient Egypt. He'd waited a moment before peeking his head inside—and she hadn't been there. At first, it had been confusion—then raw panic. Sam didn't skip school. She just didn't. That wasn't Sam, that was more Dean. But it was the only possibility he'd even dared entertain. He'd rushed home, flat out running half way, shoving past Carrie and ignoring her cry of "Call me!" But he wouldn't, he never did. When he'd swung open that door to Sam's bloodshot eyes and hand clenched around a beer bottle, well, it had been a surge of relief. She was _alive, safe,_ and also in a whole hell of a lot of trouble.

It was true, that Dean had always been the real parent to Sam—had always set her bedtime and dealt with the cuts and bruises and tears. He'd been the one to help her with her homework and teach her how to hold a gun, how to drive, how to fight. But, he wasn't their father, no matter how much Sam insisted he was a better father, and when he yelled at her, it came out all wrong because he didn't know what to _do_. Big brothers aren't supposed to be the ones dishing out discipline, but that's exactly what he'd done, and it felt like a pine cone lodged in his throat. And the _look_ she'd given him—like he was just as bad as John—he shuddered. He loved their father, they both did, but John wasn't cut out to be a parent anymore. Not after Mary. Dean still had the faintest of memory of John before he became a hunter, when he'd smiled with just as deep of dimples as Sam and always made time to play the Knights and Dragons game with him before he went to bed. Sam, however, saw him as he was. Cold, empty, broken and lost, unsure of anything other than Hunting and killing and drinking. He didn't know how to deal with his daughter, who was so different from Dean, who wanted more. And so he'd shut her out, left the parenting to Dean, never bothered to try—just walked out the door, knowing that it was still Dean's job.

The water was slowly turning his skin a deep shade of red, his muscles relaxing under the spray, his head beginning to come back to order. Sam had done something wrong, but in a way, he should've expected it. Sam was, of course, very territorial. He was too—they were all they had, and so it came with the deal. Sam was Deans and Dean was supposed to be Sam's. Only today he wasn't. The raw truth of it made him suck in a breath, because she'd begged him with her big shiny eyes, asked him to walk her to class, and the lingering touch of arousal from Carries hand under the table in Science was all he could think about—and now, it disgusted him. No lay should ever come before Sammy, but Carrie's red hair and rounded hips were all he'd been able to think about. He saw Sam's hurt face, the sudden cloud of anger, her defiant shove against Carrie's chest, almost sending the poor girl tumbling down the bleachers. He remembered her thin finger waving in the air, shouting with gusto at him from twenty feet away, the twisted anger and betrayal that was written into every line of her face, and felt his gut twist. He was supposed to be her's, but today he'd picked sex over his little sister.

::

The next morning, Sam got up at five thirty, took a shower, pulled on her newest jeans and a tanktop, slid on her ancient leather jacket with the cracks in the cuffs and her boots—left her hair down and put on the mascara she'd stolen from the convenience store three hunts ago. She glossed her lips with chap stick and practiced her smile in the mirror, until it was dimpled perfection and she could convince herself that it wasn't bitter in the slightest. Then, she dumped a glass of water over Dean's head, and as he sputtered awake, made herself toast to go.

Dean shoved himself into his clothes, glaring at the floor, knowing she was still mad. He'd tried to talk to her last night, but she'd tucked herself under the covers, a stiff and unforgiving blanket lump, and ignored him until he got the hint that no matter what he said, it wasn't going to change a damn thing. He'd crawled into bed with the biggest fear that he wouldn't be able to fix her, that they wouldn't be the same after this. But, he supposed, it was bound to happen. Make your bed, you have to sleep in it.

The whole way to school, Sam hummed songs she'd memorized from the tapes that John played every time they were in the Impala—old 80's hits that no one in her grade would even know existed, but they comforted her and soothed the ache in her throat that missed Dean's arm around her shoulders. She stayed at least three feet in front of him the whole time, leaving him to stare at the back of her head with frustration, at her and himself. Occasionally he'd heave an angry sigh that she ignored, the irritation in her stomach blowing up like a balloon, bigger and bigger with each exhalation.

Finally, the school rose up in front of them, dull and promising separation from her brother. Sam shoved herself through the doors, losing Dean in the crowd of students gushing towards the freshman lockers. Only when she'd reached the blue metal door of her own, did she allow herself to relax. Sam closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cool metal, fighting back the desire to run back through the hallway and find Dean—to wrap her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, to press her face into the warm, home smelling skin of his neck and just be, like she was supposed to be. _He chose her over you, Samantha. Get it through your head, you're not Dean's number one anymore. _The thought sent spasms up her throat, and she jerked back, fumbling with the lock before tearing the door open.

She gathered her books and pasted a smile on her face, ran a hand through her hair and closed the door.

_I'm done being Dean's pet. _Sam thought to herself, making her way through the crowd of students, her step sure and confident. _I'm a fucking Winchester. I don't need anyone. Least of all my brother._

::

The boy who stared at her in English, the one with the soft blue eyes like faded denim and long blonde hair's name turned out to be Steven. She learned that when he came over to her table while they were choosing partners for their project about poetry. He had a nice smile, nervous and young—his hands fumbled hers slightly when she stuck it out in greeting, answering his question of her name with a dimpled smile and "Sam."

She let him sit a little closer than necessary and listened to him explain what he knew about poems. "They rhyme sometimes, but it's easier to have them not." He said, his fingers tracing the words on the paper in front of them. "Mrs. Williams said, before you came here, that you can put more emotion into them if they don't rhyme." Sam nodded, pretending to know what that meant. "And other than that, all I really know is that you usually write them about someone you love." Steven shrugged and grinned at her. Sam smiled back, trying not to think of the only person she loved.

"Well," She said, pushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, "This project is due in two weeks right? And we have to write three separate ones?" Steven nodded. "Then I say we get started, because there's no way we'll finish." She laughed, bumping her shoulder against his, liking the way he smiled back at her.

Maybe it wouldn't be so hard to start over again. Maybe she could learn a thing or two from Dean and his effortless belonging to every group. She ignored the tightness in her chest at the thought of Dean and smiled even wider when, at the end of class, Steven scribbled down his number and passed it to her with pink cheeks.

::

It had been three days.

Three day's of Sam's eyes wandering over him, through him. Of her constant silence, and determined distraction. Three long nights where, when she woke in the night, tears sparkling in her eyes, her pained gasps bringing him to consciousness, she didn't come to him.

Dean kicked the ground beneath his boots, watching as faceless kids wandered down the hall, moving with all the speed of molasses on a cold day. He craned his head to the left, peering towards the Freshman hallway, waiting for Sam to emerge for lunch, hoping to corner her and make her see that he was sorry. Everything about the day had sucked so far, he'd gotten caught ditching class, tripped over a kids books on the way to Science and almost smashed his face into the ground. Needless to say, he needed Sammy to forgive him before he put himself in a hospital.

When Sam emerged from the crowd, her head was turned attentively towards a boy, maybe a year older than her, with shaggy blonde hair hanging down around his face. She was laughing, smiling, her eyes bright and interested. Dean felt his stomach clench—the urge to lay into the locker he was no longer leaning against only got worse when she laughed, and placed her delicate hand on the boys arm, her cheeks flushing.

The elder Winchester took a deep breath, watching until Sam had exited the double doors at the end of the hall, the boy turning the other way, toward the Sophomore lockers, before moving. His footsteps ate the ground, his bowlegged hunters stride moving him fast enough to catch up with Sam within a minute. Dean's large hand wrapped around her upper arm and he ignored the confused stares of other students as he dragged her to the bleachers—kicking and yelling all the way, Sam cursed him from heaven to hell.

"Let go!" Sam screamed, lashing out with her opposite hand. Dean winced as her nail dug into his neck, but kept walking. "I will fucking kill you!" She yelped, her feet tumbling out from under her as Dean hefted her upright and tossed her into the dark space below the bleachers. He scrambled, her tiny hands jerking him by the lapels of his coat away from her—the sudden shade making his eyes confused.

"I'm sorry!" He yelled over her cussing.

"Not good enough Dean Jonathan Winchester!" Sam steamed, her face flushed, moving away from him, her eyes set on the exit—back out to the field.

"Sam!" He grabbed the back of her jacket, hauling her closer to him. "Just listen to me!" The agony in Dean's voice made Sam's heart shake, made her feel like a monster—but she just couldn't stop. She'd done so well, for three whole days—and she wasn't about to let all her hard work go to waste. She spun around in his arms and slammed her fist into his eye as hard as she could.

Dean yelled out in pain, stumbling back and falling against the support beam of the bleachers, the dust the coated the concrete spinning up in clouds around his boots. "Fuck, Sammy.." He murmured, blinking at her through the fingers of his hand. "I know—I know you're ma—"

"Don't." She snorted, ripping one hand through her hair, brushing it back from her face. "Don't even say 'mad'. I'm not mad, Dean. I'm livid." She said, balling her fists. "You chose a slut, some red headed bitch you knew for maybe three days—and chose fucking her over me. Over your sister. And it finally occurred to me that it's always gonna be like that. You always do this, and I've always assured myself that I was still number one—but now? No. I'm not number one. I'm dead last and I have been for a long ass time."Something shifted then, "And you know.. It's just not good enough." Something raw and pure and ancient in it's agony washed over her sweet face. Dean swallowed convulsively, his throat tightening around all the words he wanted to say—fighting back tears because it was _Sammy _and Sammy should _never _have that look on her face. But it was gone as soon as it had appeared, her face hardening, eyes going steely and cold. She turned, sending clouds of dust into the air, her hair whipping like a molten chocolate lash against the black of her jacket—and then she was gone.

He couldn't even begin to move. His feet felt glued in place again. She hadn't looked like Sammy, his kid sister right then. She'd looked fierce, beautiful and dangerous. She had ceased to be delicate Samantha Winchester, and had become Sam—the hunters daughter.

Dean ached, the image burned into him for the rest of the day.

::

Sam bit down on her lip, her worn back pack balanced on her shoulders—listening to Steven talk beside her on the sidewalk. She hadn't bothered to tell her brother that she wouldn't be going back to the motel room after school, but she was so angry at the time that she hadn't even cared if John did find out and hit her. Now, the anger had faded from her and she just wanted to curl up in bed, shed the persona she'd been carrying around like a mask for the past three days and go to sleep, but they had to do the stupid project.

"Have you thought of anything you want to write about?" His voice seeped into her aching head.

"Not really, I'm afraid I wont be very good at it." She admitted. He laughed, as though the very thought was hilarious. "What?"

"The way I see it, Sam, is that poetry is just feelings. So unless you're emotionally constipated—" He broke off, turning to her with a shrug, the warm breeze ruffling his soft blonde hair. She shook her head, a slight smile on her lips. She found it surprisingly easy to talk to this boy, despite his being the complete and total opposite of her and the rest of her family. He had an easy way of seeing the world that was nice to look through, to not see monsters and fear lurking in every corner.

"I mean—I guess you're right." She said. "It's just my family has a policy of "Don't talk about it."" She laughed, the sound coming out awkward, forced. "Probably because it's two guys and me." She said, shrugging.

"Ah. Divorce?" Steven asked.

"No." She answered simply. Steven didn't ask any more questions.

::

"Oh god. I told you I can't write." Sam groaned, tossing the notebook onto Steven's bed and falling back against the floor. The older boy laughed and grabbed the notebook from where she'd thrown it.

_I suppose I could tell you the truth,_

_But daddy always taught me to lie,_

_And now,_

_I don't even know if I know the truth myself._

She'd stopped writing there, and Steven dropped the notebook off the bed, so that it landed on her lap.

"It's good. Keep going."

_All I really know,_

_Is that you feel like home,_

_And I know the lines to all your favorite songs,_

_The catch phrases of your favorite superhero's—_

_How you take your coffee,_

_And the sound of your sleepy voice is my favorite sound in the world._

_I know that you're the only one who was there,_

_On a night filled with fire and blood,_

_How you've been there ever since,_

_But,_

_Not anymore. _

_I know that you have eyes like spring after rain,_

_I know how many freckles you have on your face,_

_And the exact way you smile when you want something._

_I know,_

_That you make my heart hurt and my soul light—_

_I know that you used to love me most. _

_You don't have to waste your breath,_

_Telling me your sorry,_

_Because I don't think I could believe you if I tried._

_There are lines you don't cross,_

_And you've crossed them all so many times that they're nothing more than bootprints in the dust._

"Steven this is crap." She said, half an hour later, glaring at the words scribbled onto the paper.

"No, it's really good." He said, "Who's it about?"

Sam hesitated, balancing on the edge of making up a lie, some boy in some other school—a broken heart that didn't really exist, and the truth. _My brother. We're so so so close, but not anymore,_ but even though she didn't know much about "normal" family dynamics, she was pretty sure you don't write poems about your brother_._ In the end, she settled for, "I've got to go."

::

Dean sat on the edge of the motel bed, his fingers clamping down reflexively on the cheap comforter. Sam wasn't home yet, and he was getting anxious. Usually, she would be home, she would be sitting on the bed, headphones plugged into the crap CD player, that she'd saved up for, head bowed, working on her homework. She'd be back to ignoring him, but at least she'd be there, her scent breezing around the room from the fan by her bed—and he'd pretend he wasn't watching her, thinking of ways to apologize. It'd been days—and he was panicking, what if she didn't forgive him? What if she kept ignoring him? It was all so messed up.

His thoughts snarled into giant knots around her name, tightening and pulling taught, _fucked up, so stupid, lost her._ Dean didn't want to think about it anymore, didn't want to remember three days of silence and chilly nights without Sam pressed against his back like always. The whole world felt wrong, off balance, and he didn't know what words to say to make it tilt back the right way.

Just when he felt like his head was about to explode, the door opened. Dean's head snapped up, seeing Sam coming through the door, her face tight and eyes flickering from the floor to him and back again. Dean stood, his mind spinning—screaming at him to go, grab her up in a hug and tell her it'll never happen again, _that you'll do all her homework for a year if she'll just talk to you, God, say anything just get her to listen_. But he didn't move, feet glued to the floor as she shut the door, her hand white around the knob.

"Please." It's less of a word and more of a groan, and Dean will deny it to his dying day—but it wasn't okay anymore. He needed this to be over, needed Sam again, his baby sister, all sweet and happy and the light that was annoyingly bright when all he wanted was some good old fashioned teenage angst. He stumbled forward a step, feeling woozy and off balance. "God, Sam—please."

Sam's hazel eyes are wide, her mouth slightly open, cheeks white and hair mussed from running her hands through it too many times. She stands there, taking in the sight of her big brother, her hero, vulnerable, weak, open, begging _her_ for forgiveness. There is such pain, longing, desperation in Dean's eyes that all she wants is to wrap him in her arms and sing into his ear, soothe the ragged ache in her chest that she can see mirrored in the gorgeous green of his eyes.

_Three days, Sam. Three days of hard work, is it worth it?_ The little voice in her head nags, and she doesn't even have to think about it.

Of _course_ it's worth it.

Sam crashed against him, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms around his neck as he slumps back to the bed, his hands hard and desperate against her back, his face buried into her neck, pained little gasps and relieved tears streaking her skin and his. His voice is soft, whispering into her hair. "I love you, Sammy. I'm sorry, so sorry." Sam knows, and Dean knows she knows, but it's nice to hear, so she digs her face into the warm skin of his neck, pressing her lips over where his pulse pumped, just beneath the skin.

_Yep. Worth it._


End file.
